Of Lead and Silver
by Color Me Gray
Summary: A story of dying dreams, families in unexpected places, and the things in life that we don't understand. Please be kind, ... rewind? OH! Review. Yes, please review. CH.9 is new, & another chapter is up. CH 60: Empty
1. Of Looking and Leaping

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Chapter One: Looking and Leaping

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_Late 1880's  
Paris, France

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**Leah**

My eyes seemed to possess volition of their own.

They had spent the last two and a half hours examining and cataloguing the sights and sounds of the giant beast around me. Humming and breathing and dancing to some wordless tune that far surpassed anything I had yet encountered in my small life, the Opera Garnier pulsed with excitement. Granted, fifteen years are not an enormous span of time, but that was the last thing on my mind. I was still in a state of shock at achieving the one dream my heart had ever wanted. My future seemed like a well-plotted map, lined with practices, recitals, operas, ballets and stardom. It was all I could do not to burst out into song.

I refrained from acting upon my less than intelligent urge, -if only out of respect for any life form in the near vicinity- for the two people in front of me were the last on earth that I would wish to be embarrassed in front of. I knew that my vocal skills would never impress anyone, but I was very sure of the skill in my feet. If it weren't for that, I would never have gotten within a hundred yards of the massive building we were traipsing about.

Lost in thought, I hardly noticed that they had turned down another of the opera house's many halls. As I ran to catch up, Henry caught my wrist. Puzzled and a bit upset at being delayed, I shot my brother an angry glare. He only smiled, and silently pointed behind me. I nearly fell over backwards!

I had stopped just inches from a collision with the backside of one M Debienne, whose arm was occupied by my mother. With his characteristic 'older-brother-I-told-you-so' expression, Henry shot me another smug grin. I couldn't help but laugh.

Continuing at a leisurely pace, the two adults finally managed to turn their conversation in the direction I had been waiting for. We were approaching the main dance studio. Nervously, I considered the fact that the Opera was already two weeks into its winter season. Slowly, my confidence in my talents began to plummet. What if I couldn't learn the routines in time? Would I be expelled from the dance conservatory? Never be on stage?

The humble pine door gave a little squeal before admitting the four of us to the studio. The mirror-lined walls were dotted with dancers in various stages of warming up. I scanned the room for any girls my age. Several older boys were practicing a simple partnered dance. The natural grace of girls at their sides did nothing to ease my anxieties. A small group of younger children awkwardly imitated them from a safe distance.

Panic began to coat my stomach. By nature I was a very social creature, and my natural tendency to worry worked its hook into the newest crack in my armor. What happened to my joy and resolve to be brave? This morning, I was so sure I wouldn't have any reason to worry. Now I couldn't help but wonder if there would be no one to talk to here. Would I spend all my free time alone? I enjoyed the time I often spent alone with a good book, but I knew that I needed some one to befriend and tell stories with.

Just as I had approached despair, the answer to my unspoken prayer materialized before my desperate eyes. Having caught a shiver of movement, my gaze reverted to a darker corner of the hall that I had overlooked. A small group of groggy young women had taken shelter there from the brilliant sunlight streaming in the massive windows, filtered only by the light snowfall.

The warm glow threw their faces into sharp relief with the shade. One of the smallest was readjusting her practice tulle with the assistance of a second dancer. The faded jewel tone of the red skirt cast a pink glow onto the elder girl's beige leotard and added a hint of rose to both of their cheeks. The younger of the two seemed impatient to be free of the auburn haired girl's attentions, chatting freely with a number of the group despite the age difference of three or four years.

Her attendant, one of the senior members of the flock, wore a look of long suffering patience and mild annoyance as her efforts were comically thwarted by the excited gestures that accompanied the child's conversations. Sisters, I observed. There was only a trace of family resemblance, but even I could sense the free and easy mood between them.

The elder sibling, having finished with the petite blond beside her, turned to speak to several other ballerinas roughly the same age as I. I immediately felt a strange eagerness to meet these girls, and found myself most intrigued by the pair of nameless sisters.

A bit tired, they clustered together while warming up, murmuring gently among themselves as they stretched out sleeping limbs. The first image they conjured in my mind was that of a group of delicate hens or exotic water foul. Even half awake, each girl seemed to positively exude an air of confidence, grace, and poise.

By comparison, I immediately felt gawky and awkward. Shyness and worry did a tumultuous battle in the bottom of my stomach with the urge to run over and introduce myself. I was quite sure that my intestines had just admitted a small swarm of butterflies.

Very frisky butterflies.

Habitually, I glanced at my reflection in the nearest mirror in order to set myself to rights. I first assessed my hair. My scalp relished in its temporary freedom from my trademark snood, the easiest form of restraint for the disobedient mop God had chosen to curse me with. I often wished for other girls' tidy straight hair or beautiful curls, but mine seemed incapable of choosing, preferring instead to be limply wavy. Early this morning, I had asked Nana to undertake one of the more complicated updo's that I had seen at the Yule Ball, in an effort to disguise its normal unruliness. The tiny braids had taken hours, but I had been very pleased with the elegance it afforded my normally fly away tresses. By some miracle, the sleek wings of dark, brackish-brown had remained intact. Perhaps God had truly heard my earnest prayers about today.

My inquiry next traveled to my face, though there wasn't much use wishing for more handsome features. My mildly blemished skin had cooperated somewhat with my attempts at staving off its usual imperfections, bearing only a handful of red marks. Even amist the throngs of Paris, whose skin was a bit darker than that of most Europeans, my olive complextion was an unfashionable burden. My nose had never quite been of a fashionable Grecian form, a fate that I lamented. My lips always seemed too large for my face, but what could be done for that? My eyes were my least attractive feature, being the cold gray color of marble most often used for fireplaces and tombstones.

Having long ago given up the lost cause of my appearance, I steeled myself for this all-important first meeting. Nagging worries reechoed off the sides of my head. I had never been very 'good with people', especially strangers, and had never had an actual pillow friend. I mentally scolded myself with the reminder that this would be a fresh start.

I paused in my flight to cast a quick glance in my mother's direction. A small whispering voice in me vainly wished that she were watching me like a falcon, ready to swoop down from on high and bar my way. Had she noticed, she would have scolded me for lowering myself so publicly. She was engrossed in conversation with M Debienne and a stern-looking woman who was perhaps ten years the senior of my mother's girlish thirty-three.

My movement did not go unnoticed by all of my mother's small party. The authoritative woman caught me with a shrewd, investigative gaze that sharply commanded my attention. I felt as though the woman was taking me apart like a clock maker examining a clock. Her eyes were methodically removing my pretenses and tinkering with my gears.

Slightly intimidated, I refused to be out done. '_Two can play at that game.'_ I began to mentally catalogue what I could observe of her, attempting to look unaffected and drawing myself up to my full, if insubstantial, height. A slim, well-toned woman, she dwarfed me by at least five inches. Trim and self-possessed, the angles of her body and face were not sharp, but precisely cut. A neat coil of deep bronze hair regally crowned her head. She wore a simple, but well made outfit of an almond wool skirt and a crisp lavender blouse. A small cameo at her throat was her only adornment, and she carried a formidable looking cane.

If she saw the challenge in my eyes, she responded only with a slightly raised eyebrow. I caught a quick touch of emotion in her eyes and the corners of her mouth, but I was at a loss for pining down what it was. Irritation? Indifference? Amusement? Approval?

Without so much as my mother's "by your leave", the woman indicated in no uncertain terms that I was to follow her. Simply a quick flick of the wrist and she strode purposefully out of the room.

Double-checking the laces of my soft, well broken slippers, I grabbed what courage I had and locked the sheepish beast in a strangle hold.

Keeping my irritation in check, I stumbled to keep up. Attempting to unravel her identity proved to be a fruitless mental endeavor while nearly jogging to match her pace.

The race abruptly halted, and for the second time that day, I found myself nearly embedded in someone's backside. Indifferent to her near peril, my would-be victim calmly unlocked a less noisy door to reveal the theater's practice hall. As I opened my mouth to speak, I was silenced by the cultured yet unfamiliar accent that graced the voice of the dark-eyed woman before me.

"I am Madame Giry, the Maitre de Corps of the opera house. You are to give me an audition, no?"

I was at a loss for words. I would never have thought the head ballet mistress to be someone so…plain. I had always pictured her as a rich, affectionate woman who would run in the elite circles and would be my second mother. As though she had found a back entrance to my thoughts, she gave me a slight yet encouraging smile.

"Mademoiselle? Are you ready?"

It was not a question.

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Three hours and several strained muscles later, the audition concluded. Bathed in sweat, I could not remember ever having worked so hard in my life. This Madame Giry was most definitely a ballet mistress. She had coaxed my skills further than I had known they could go, only speaking for a few minutes now and then. Already she had corrected several long-term technical errors and I had found myself leaping higher than ever and keeping time more precisely. I pensively waited for her to break the pressing silence.

I had also discovered Madame's talent for inspiration. A deep-seated part of me wanted nothing more that to please her and not embarrass myself in her eyes. After several minutes of cooling down and stretching out, she was ready to answer my unspoken question with her melodious accent that was heavy even for a native Frenchwoman.

"Well done, very well done. Much better than I had expected."

I couldn't contain my glee.

"Thank you so much…"

"That is not to say your performance was without fault. We will have much to do if you are to take part in the next production. In the mean time, you will continue to stretch for five minutes and afterwards you will come into my office. Take the third stairs on the left down four floors. You will find me at the third door to your right. Do you understand?"

I could barely squeak out a respectful "Oui Madame" before she swept out of the hall.

Collapsing in a happy pile of exhausted jubilation, I finally let loose the urge I had kept in check sense early that morning. I began to sing a wordless tune that my Abuela had taught me before she gave up all hope of teaching me to sing. My voice had never been very strong, and I had a very limited range, but on occasion I found singing to be an excellent outlet for my often unexpressed emotions.

In private of course.

The sensation of being appraised suddenly returned, intruding upon my peaceful solitude and literally paralyzing me. There was someone watching me, and while I was very disturbed by the sensation, I felt unable to leave. The eyes boring into my back couldn't have been more different from Madame Giry's. Where she had removed a bit of stage paint, this examination went far deeper. This gaze was peeling away my skin and watching my heart beat.

Counting in time to the pulsing rhythm of the blood in my veins.

Starting out of my stupor, I realized that I had been alone in the practice hall for several minutes. Hurrying to catch up to my new instructor, I bolted out the stage door.

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_**Authoress's Notes:**  
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_♫This chapter is a compilation of chapters two and three of my origional draft, and I have reposted the Review responses that belong to those chapters. I hope you all enjoy the new and improved chapters that I am posting.  
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_ ♪A pillow friend is an old fashioned term for the special kind of best friend that you can share everything with. Comes from the idea of 'pillow talk' (and not in a sexual way) of sharing whispered secrets with someone before you go to sleep._

_♫In ALW's musical, the opera house is refered to as 'the populaire'. In real life, the paris opera house at the time of Leroux's novel was called 'the Garnier', after its cheif archectect. It is a beautiful building, and if you get the chance, do a little reaserch on the place. It will really make the Phantom story come alive for you once you can picture the settings._

_ ♪_Abuela_ is Spanish for grandmother. I've given our 'heroine' a Spanish background. Why you ask? (O.K., you probably don't care, but I'm lonely tonight. Therefore, I am going to put words in your non-existent, virtual mouths. Got it? Good.) Then I will tell you!  
A. I adore the Spanish language and culture. Adore as in it excites me almost as much as a large bowl of ice cream. That's a whole lot of excitement.  
B. It gives me a good excuse to use some lovely period Spanish songs in the plot.  
C. Because I can. I've got a god complex. Who-hoo!_

_♫__In related news, I saw my first two Broadway shows just before writing this chapter, one of which was PHANTOM!__ Woot! It was amazing. Except for Christine, who sucked. Sorry to any fans. She spent the whole time in vibrato. As in Carlotta vibrato. Blech. I wanted to shoot her… (Been spending too much time pondering Eric's homicidal tendencies)_


	2. II

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	3. What Is Spoken Here

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Chapter Two: What Is Spoken Here

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**Leah**

I was halted abruptly in my flight by a human mass on the landing of the third stair.

For a dancer, I was unbelievably clumsy. As I staggered backwards, I mentally berated myself. Of all the stupid things! Fate had finally won the upper hand it had been straining for all day. I clutched my forearm to stem the bright red flow that rushed from a small abrasion. Seeing the stain on my favorite bodice, a forbidden curse word began to bloom on my lips.

"Merde!"

"**_Leah Isabella Milagros de Castillo_**!"

My full name rolled smoothly off the lips of the only person able to utter it so quickly.

"Mama!" was all I could manage to choke out.

I couldn't think of anything more embarrassing to have happened in front of the small group below me.

Bowing my head in shame, I closed my eyes, attempting to rid myself of the image burned into them. Pudgy Monsieur Debbine stood motionless and gape-faced while Madame Giry took a stunned step backwards, very near to collision with the true aim of my vision. Mama was livid, full of all the righteous wrath of a thunderstorm.

I wanted to die.

A soft sound snapped my head to attention. It was impossible! No one would possibly be…

Laughing.

He was laughing at me! That overgrown, moon-eyed schoolboy was actually _laughing_ at me! Just the softest of chuckling, but his face revealed the true extent of his emotion, turning a shade of red to rival my own.

How dare he! To think I had felt sorry for him! It was one thing to converse so familiarly with my mother, but now he had forgotten his place. Didn't he know who I was? Who my family was? I was Leah de Castillo, granddaughter of Don Fernando Castillo! Who was he to mock me? A second-class Parisian businessman! Did he think that being my brother's father gave him license to act as mine?

I longed for Mama to notice his insult, and as I waited for her swift anger, I imagined how wonderful it would be to hear her call him down for mocking me. My heart thrilled at the impractical hope that she might defend me, as any other mother would defend her injured child.

The soft rustle of skirts cut my heavenly daydream all too short.

Immediately, my joy vanished, and I descended to earth in a blast of cold reality. My mother stood looking down at me, full of all the righteous wrath of a thunderstorm. Debbine remained a step below her, still restrainedly red. Mama was aggravatingly oblivious to the insult.

For once, her eyes were for me alone, but in a manner very different than the one I often prayed for. The blue-clad figure below me emanated disappointment and a nearly tangible command of silence. I started to hang my head in shame once again, hugging my arms closer to my body, but found myself interrupted by a cool hand near my own.

Startled, I looked up to find Madame Giry inspecting my cut. In painful contrast to Mama's reactions, my unintentional victim seemed content merely to examine her newest dancer instead of rebuking me.

I appraised her person quickly, and was thankful to see she looked completely unfazed by either my stupidity or my tongue. The only visible injury was to her polished black cane, which now sported red ornamentation. Apparently, the wicked looking stick had been the cause of my injury.

"_Her cane and my foolish actions"_, I thought ashamedly.

I was near to bursting, full of so many opposing emotions. Surprise at Madame's concern for me after I had run headlong into her. Mortification that this woman, who I now had such respect for, should see me in such a state of weakness. Fading traces of anger harbored against Monsieur D. for his fun at my expense. Self-disgust for having so shamed and embarrassed my mother. And stupidly, a trace of my earlier fear still remained, a dormant seed of uneasiness. I was now deeply regretting my childish reactions to an imaginary presence.

The undeniable urge to end the repressive silence around us came too quickly for thought. Needing to express how I felt to _someone_, I acted on instinct. I needed to say _something_ to my teacher. The words flew from my mouth before I could think.

"_Los sientos Madame, soy_ –"

"**_Ici on parle francais_**!" Mama addressed me for the second time since we had entered the building. Her mood was not much improved from the first time she had spoken.

I groaned inwardly, knowing that my attempt to quiet the situation had only made things worse. To anyone else, my lapse into speaking Spanish would have passed relatively unnoticed. Paris was not Madrid, but it was a bustling international center, and everyone knew a few phrases in the most common foreign tongues. Most people in Paris wouldn't have batted an eye at hearing three or four different languages spoken in one room, much less a common expression blurted out here or there.

Mama was not most people.

At times it seemed as though she were ashamed her own heritage. I had grown up being taught to embrace my roots while enjoying my country. I was bilingual, speaking both French and Spanish with ease. It was not uncommon for conversations with my Abuelos to be a muddled mixture of the two, for both languages had been spoken to me since infancy.

My mother's desire to cut me off from the language of our family had always been a hotly debated issue in the Castillo household. According to my Abuelo, Mama had 'shaken the rafters' for the first few months of my life, determined to have her way with the subject. My grandparents had flatly refused, wanting me to love their culture as they did. My mother believed that people looked down on mis abuelos for their country of origin. I'm not sure any of us really understood at the time why she felt as she did. I would learn, but the knowledge would be several years in the waiting.

Presently oblivious to her reasons, I could not fathom how anyone could think less of my beloved grandparents. Refined and gentile, they were perfect pictures of titled nobility. Don Fernando Luis and Donna Rosa Milagros were always welcoming and warm with both intimate acquaintances and absolute strangers. Indeed, they were always gracious hosts and generally pleasant people.

Within the confines of my limited circle of family and friends, they were second in importance only to Henry and Mama. Nothing I could think of could explain her strange ideas. Whatever the rationale behind her objections to the language, it had always been made very clear to me that she did not wish for me to use it in her presence.

I sometimes wondered if I had been cursed with a clumsy brain as well as a clumsy nature.

My momentary quiet seemed to have had no effect in the way of calming my mother's irritation. I must have tensed in anticipation of her displeasure, for the next sound I heard was not one of an upbraiding lecture, but Madame's low tone.

"_Il n'y a pas de quoi, Mademoiselle Castillo_"

The gentleness of her voice made a surprising contrast with her previously instructional, matter of fact manner. I felt a rush of relief and a surge of affection for the lady who stood at my side. For a moment I was completely unmindful of the other people in the smooth granite stairwell, thankful and amazed at the luck I must have possessed to find such an insightful and compassionate person in my teacher.

I was abruptly aware of the presence of M Debbine and Mama as the later roughly cleared her throat. Gathering my thoughts like wildfire, I gave my best attempt at a polite reply.

"_Pardonnez-moi Mme., et merci, c'est gentil_."

Finally sensing the tension in the atmosphere, Monsieur D gave his best effort to change the mood of the conversation. (Or lack thereof.)

"Yes, Mme. Giry has told us the good news Leah. Let me be the first to welcome you to the Paris Opera House as a member of the corps!"

He smiled indulgently in my mother's direction, endeavoring to calm her. She gave into his pleasant conversation and they linked arms, chatting while walking towards the stables and signaling the end of my time at the opera. Mme. Giry allowed them ample space and began to follow. A sharp gesture of her wrist was all that was necessary to send me flying to walk silently beside her. With little else to focus on in the already familiar setting of the dim hallways, my attention turned to the pair in front of us.

I could not help but notice Galin's effect on my mother's mood. As his warm smile and comfortable nature charmed away Mama's irritation, I made a mental note to do my best not to ever get angry with him again. Besides, that patient smile was difficult to ignore. And the way he made her eyes sparkle, as though they were radiant sapphires…

Reality's painful and inevitable call had come knocking once again.

This man was not my father, and he never would be! Why couldn't I simply let my childish dreams die? To my great relief, I found that we were nearing the stables. Now I could fix my mind on a less painful topic.

As I was gently handed up into our carriage, I quietly murmured my new teacher a short farewell "Madame, thank you for being so tactful about my clumsiness. _Ma foi_, I will not be so awkward on stage!"

I barely caught the ballet mistress's final words as the coachman softly closed the door behind me.

"Nous Verrons."

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_**Authoress's Notes:**__ ♪__Los sientos Madame, soy: I'm sorry Madame, I am-  
♫__Ici on parle francais: French is spoken here  
♪__Abuelo: grandfather  
♫__Abuelos: grandparents  
♪__Il n'y a pas de quoi, Mademoiselle Castillo: It's not worth speaking of Miss Castillo  
♫__Pardonnez-moi Mme., et merci, c'est gentil: I beg your pardon Madame, and thank you, that's kind of you.  
♪__Ma foi: Upon my faith  
__Nous Verrons: We shall see

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**_**Review Responses: ** Thank you so much for reviewing, my gorgeous reviewers! I bequeath bountiful cyber cheesecake to you all. 


	4. IV

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	5. Cold Shoulder

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Chapter Three: Cold Shoulder

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**Mme. Giry**

The whole affair was a bit of a mystery.

And being mystified was not a sensation I often experienced. Or enjoyed.

As the Castillo coach rumbled away from my home, I tried to piece together the unusual circumstances of the morning, hoping to find an over looked clue. My mental reel was temporarily halted as I deftly picked my way through the stables.

The pleasant scent of hay was overpowered by the musty aroma of dung and dust. Even though it was early afternoon, I had to look carefully to see where I was walking. The cramped space had few windows, leaving the corners draped in shadow. The uncertain proportions of the hot breathed animals looming over me did little to aid my thought process. I was always uncomfortable there, in the midst of so many horses.

None of the staff at the Garnier knew the true reason I avoided the stables. Most thought me too weak of stomach to bear the odor. They had no idea. I had held my hand over mortal wounds of dying men to stem the flow of blood. I had seen horrors in those hospital wards that they could not dream of.

'A delicate stomach'. A faint smile ghosted over my lips at the thought.

Few employees had been on the staff long enough to have known that I served a short stint in the hospitals during the war. Most of those who knew no longer remembered. I had allowed the suggestion of my frail constitution to fester over the years, growing into fact. Although I disliked the idea of being thought of as inadequate in any way, this was preferable to the alternative. I did not want anyone to know that I was not avoiding the stable's fragrance, but the horses themselves.

Hardly anyone knew of my extreme aversion to the beasts. As a young woman, I had had a less than friendly encounter with a mean spirited stallion. The incident had changed my life, and left a bad taste in my mouth for the wicked creatures.

Acknowledging one of the stable boys with a slight nod and a tight lipped smile, I retreated from the whickering in the stalls. Striding down the quiet hall with purpose, the only sound to be heard was the dull snap of my boot heels on the cool marble. A gentle tickle of cold air sent an irritating shiver down my spine.

I had never been fond of the cold. My thoughts drifted back to a warm black shawl I had seen only yesterday. Perhaps I could justify the vain purchase, just this once. After all, I would be spending a greater portion of my time in the maze of the backstage corridors, supervising all the dance practices on stage.

A dull echo of sorrow reminded me of how just how much of missed Celine. And how alone I felt without her hand to help me along. Mme. Lensan's warm personality had always seemed a bit out of place in here during the chilly winter rehearsals. This was my first winter truly wearing the title of Maitre de Corps, having shared the role with my mentor for seven years.

It had been five months since I had had a partner to lean on, to share the responsibilities of overseeing the corps. A small part of me was still doubtful of my ability to fill the hole she had left in at the Opera Garnier.

Many of the girls continued to show me less respect than they had my predecessor. I wished to honor her memory and make her proud, but I silently feared that I would never live up to her high standards. She had been a cheerful soul, always wearing a welcoming smile and offering an inviting shoulder. I, on the other hand, had always taught with a stern manner, demanding the best that my girls could give. It had taken me quite some time to understand how the girls felt about me, but now I was trying to be the mother they had lost in Celine.

Though only a few had warmed up to my approach to teaching, they all had proven themselves very gifted time and again. When I watched them from the wings on opening nights, I began to understand why my friend had had such a motherly attitude. I welled up with pride and a bond of understanding. I was eager to give them everything I could.

My newest pupil, however, had only managed to inspire irritation and despair during her preliminary visit to my school.

Despair at ever possessing the ability to teach such a lackluster child, and frustration at my own lack of understanding. The girl had obviously been well trained, but even the greatest master could only do so much. She knew the steps and the forms, but lacked the natural grace and ease of movement that characterized the rest of my girls.

I let out a sigh of frustration at my mental lapse. The child did not belong in my little troupe. I had been so determined to assert my authority to the management, and at the first sign of failure I had already mentally included her in the corps.

My frustration also stemmed from my failure to grasp her situation. I understood why M Debbine had admitted the nit. It was obvious to anyone who was willing to look past their own nose. He had thrown his heart at an unresponsive woman's feet yet again, admitting her undeserving daughter into a dance school normally reserved for the talented few. His bleeding soul had shown me exactly how much power I really had in the opera house. I abhorred the sensation of being helpless.

Helpless was one adjective not easily applied to my new student. That one knew what she wanted, I would say that for her. She had the dream of a prima, and the spirit to match it. She was a regular spitfire! The tiny girl had come dangerously close to lecturing my amiable employer. I would have laughed, had the situation been anything other than what it was. One glare from her mother's direction had more than served to silence the child. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Mademoiselle Castillo, despite resenting her intrusion into my world.

The elder Castillo was the true root of my lack of understanding. Why would a woman of noble birth allow her daughter to lower herself in such a manner? The opera's dance academy was about as far from an elite drawing room as one could get. The girl's reputation would be irreparably tarnished. I could only imagine what an embarrassment it would be to her family.

I knew a little about the Casa de Castillo, if only from the gleanings of upper crust gossip that were ever present in the theater. The house was headed by the young girl's grandparents, who seemed to be the very pictures of propriety. Their mansion was an extravagant building on the exclusive Rue Plummet. Though they were political exiles from Spain, the Don and Donna had found a place at the very pinnacle of Parisian society.

Their daughter, however, had only recently come to live under their roof, and little was know about her or her two children. I was struck harshly by her constantly aloof nature. It seemed as though she thought the opera house was not worthy to catch the dirt off of her heels.

Another chill reminded me of how cold my family's rooms would be, and I made a mental note to petition M Debbine for more blankets in the dormitories. Humming to myself softly, I decided I would indeed purchase the black shawl tomorrow.

But despite my matronly contemplations, I couldn't help but wonder about the conversation that must have been taking place in that stately carriage.

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Leah

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The ride home was silent, as always.

The animated hustle of the large city streets gradually gave way to the rhythm of horse hooves and the dull whisper of a February afternoon. The sun shone with a brilliant white glare off of the pristine snowfall that remained from the early morning, vainly endeavoring to keep its head above the horizon. The soft dusk faithfully took the upper hand, sending predictable tendrils of shadow out to paint the sky.

Poignantly chilled air began to slink into the carriage. Despite their normal strength and stamina, my legs quickly began to appreciate the temperature change and the grueling gauntlet they had so recently run. As each imposing residence grew small behind us, I grew more eager to be home.

Night time in my grandparents' estate played host to what seemed a nearly constant stream of galas, balls, and feasts. As I was not yet sixteen, I would spend another of many nights creeping down through the servants' stairway to see the grand spectacles there.

I drank up the sights and sounds as though I were dying of thirst. The dashing young men, the twirling gowns, and the music. The drugging palette of scents and tastes, perfumes and bouquets and mouthwatering delicacies. During the liveliest dances, it was easy to imagine that the hall was filled with Abuela's delicate hothouse flowers instead of nervous youths and tipsy couples. I could have spent my entire childhood crouched on those rough wooden steps, fading into the explosion of my senses. It was only there that I could catch real glimpses of my mother. Dancing, laughing, and even singing, Mama became another woman when she crossed the threshold of our grand hall.

I suppose the intense quiet in the coach would have been uncomfortable if it had been shared by any one else. My mother, however, had never truly been the talkative sort. At least in my presence.

I had grown used to it, even learned to tolerate it with out complaint, but my young heart yearned for the approval that she carelessly threw out to every one else in her life. I simply could not comprehend why she constantly kept me at arms reach.

Don't misunderstand. Mama never hurt me. She kissed and held me, if less often than I would have liked. She grew frustrated occasionally, as I assume all mothers do, but seldom angry. When I was young, she would even read to me before I fell asleep, sometimes for hours. I learned to love books, adoring they way that they extracted me from my quiet little life and transported me to a world all their own. To this day, I can't remember any memory of her that I hold dearer.

But when I learned to read for myself, her bed time visits suddenly stopped. Confused, I threw myself into reading with a passion, childishly believing that mastering the art would gain her approval.

But she had never returned.

So I had turned to other pursuits to fill my lonely heart and ensure that the rest of my family would allways wish to be near me. Fencing with my brother had been a way to be nearer to him. Fencing was his favorite pastime. It consumed a great deal of his time, whether in the privacy of my Abuelo's home or in the competitive atmosphere of a gentleman's fencing hall. Despite the fact that it was very unbecoming for a young lady, I had insisted that he teach me, if only to spend more time in his company. He had even allowed me to occasionally accompany him to one of the halls, provided that I keep my fencing mask on at all times. He wasn't about to be seen sneaking in his little half-sister!

With Abuelo, it had been conversation. He was an extremely intelligent man, and would often entertain his friends for hours in his study. The group of grey-haired intellectuals would discus politics, science, philosophy, religion, and current affairs. They had heated arguments, good natured laughter, and smoky pipes tucked firmly between their wrinkled lips.

Eager to participate, I had wormed my way through his library and listened to their conversations. I picked up every word they said from outside the door until I was confident enough to quietly interject one day. Looking back, I had been terribly rude, interrupting as I did. But Grandfather and his kindly old cronies had found it amusing that a little girl should like to listen to them and their 'toothless rambling'. They had welcomed me in to their afternoon get-togethers and I had soaked up their wisdom like a sponge, learning the art of debate and eventually matching them contention for contention.

To win my Abuela's affection, I had learned to embroider. Though I disliked the repetitive, mind-numbing exercise, she spent many quiet hours at her own needle work. Despite my aversion to the art itself, the time I spent with her in the sunny calm of the bright parlor was comforting and pleasant.

Only Mama shut me away from her company.

To be frank, she rarely showed much emotion around me at all, persistently cool. It was as if I were merely a stranger who walked in on the intimate conversations of her private life. I never knew what she wanted from me. I spent many long hours in prayer to a god I only half believed to exist, explaining my frustration. Hoping beyond hope that there was some way to make her love me back. After all, I reasoned, love must be expressed by spending time with the ones you care for.

While I had not yet come across the expression, I truly would have 'sold my soul' for her brilliant smile to grace our interactions.

A quick glance in her direction confirmed the inevitable. She was not smiling. Not really. Her lips wore the faint vestiges of a content expression, though its cause remained an enigma to me. In secret, I half dared to hope that I had been the cause, my earlier audition performance having incited a brief moment of motherly pride in her bosom. It was, however, more likely inspired by the affection and praises bestowed by an old flame, none other than the aforementioned M Debbine.

Oddly enough, the fellow seemed to believe himself capable of re-wooing his one time ladylove. Being accustomed to my mother's conventions regarding men, her coyly polite yet subtly dismissing tone was a routine I gave no second thought. Though I possessed a view on the subject that was far too advanced for my years, I still secretly felt badly for the man.

He had no chance at all. He was too old by ten years. He was of a lesser class. Most importantly, he was just one name in a long list for Mama. Her love life closely resembled that of one of my older and more hormonally driven cousins, Mercedes. They were both reckless, self satisfying and callous when an appreciative pair of masculine eyes caught their fancy.

As a rule, I found it easiest to simply keep a healthy distance from my mother's suitors. Sensitive by nature, I often longed for a father. A strong, tall figure who would cause Mama's face light up when she took her place beside him at our cherry wood table for breakfast. Who would let me sit on his lap and tell me stories of far off lands, enchanted maidens, and daring sword fights. Who would teach me the waltz, (One of the few dances I didn't know). Someone to show me affection the way that any other parent would.

After fifteen years of frustration, of hoping that each new man would stay, I resigned myself to a life with out a father's love. My fragile, flighty tendencies of thought eventually became too difficult to continue. In the short span of my life, I had stumbled upon a blatant fact that many of the wisest people rarely seem to discover:

Some dreams are simply impossible.

That's not to say I didn't believe in my goals, my hopes. If I had gone so far as to give up on everything, my glowing triumph of the afternoon would not have shone so brightly in my heart. I simply had learned to make peace with the fact that my dreams of an idyllic family scene were as unlikely as my Abuela developing a sudden interest in playing the bagpipes.

Attempting to cope with something so difficult, I found the least painful route to walk in the maze of my mother's casual approach to relationships. With all the will I had inside my juvenile heart, I severed my emotions from anyone new.

Oh, I made a few friends (though most of my peers were loath to seek me out). But I always kept a scrap of the tense, stinging pain of loss and need nearby in my head, as an admonishment and a warning. I taught myself not to care as deeply as I once had, excluding only a vital few. Agonizingly, I hacked and split and dismembered nearly all the veins of affection that constrained my heart to contact the world around me. Turning my frustration and loneliness into a protective barrier, I deadened and silenced a desperate appetite for my idealized comforter and guardian. My father would ever remain a blurry, half imagined thought in the landscapes of my mind.

That having been considered, the odd and unprovoked sentiments of the day had truly surprised me. A tad greasy, and a touch rough around the edges, Galen Debbine was not exactly the sort of gentleman I could have imagined tying a new string around my heart, even one as simple as a few moments of sympathy. Predictably, my brilliant scheme of isolationism had failed me, thwarted by the comfortable and slightly presuming oaf who unknowingly exploited one of the few sensitive regions of my heart.

I was quick to pin the blame for the situation on Henry, as he was the most obvious target for a little misplaced mental frustration. My grudge was only momentary, as I quickly saw the absurdity of my finger pointing. I had to admit that I really couldn't blame my big brother for being sired by the amiable man, though I would have liked to. The fact that M Debbine was the father of my favorite person on earth badly hindered my attempts to ignore and shun him. At the very least, it didn't help matters a great deal.

Avoiding the tomb-like stillness of my company, my thoughts began to wind and wend down whatever random paths struck their fancy, eventually drifting in the direction of the exciting events of the morning. Even hours later, the emotionally charged scenes continued to replay in my mind…

**

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Φ**

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**Homeless- ** Thanks, from me and my guitar. 

**Priestess of Anubis- **That's an interesting screen name. I'm rather enamored with Egyptian history myself. Thanks for reviewing, and please continue. (If you keep reviewing, I'll give you cheesecake!) It's very exciting to get a new reader.

**Avid- **Yeah, it is nice to know what is going on... not that I ever really know what's going on in the real world, but at least I've got a vague idea in the written one.

**Kipper, the obedient scale flinger- ** 'Once on the lips, forever on the hips baby' I was laughing SO HARD when I read that! Can I pirate it for a line in the story? Arg, matey! And all your compliments really do make me feel lovely. I've got this inane urge to break out into a ditty from West Side Story... _ ♫_ I feel pretty, oh so pretty...


	6. VI

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	7. VII

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	8. Fight, Fright, and Memory

_Bag of catnip: $7.99  
New batteries: $4.35  
Laser pointer: $12.79_

_Watching my cats run in circles chasing the little red dot_:

**priceless

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**Φ

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**

**Chapter Four: Fight, Fright, and Memory

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**

**Leah **

I was fighting for my life.

As my attacker neared, I instinctively shifted to the left.

Sweat was dripping off my brow into my eyelashes, stinging and obscuring my vision. But I had no time to pay attention to such a trivial matter. After nearly two hours of uninterrupted combat, my brain was beginning to lose its sharp edge, leaving only enough power to continue one task. Defeat the foe.

Where my borrowed shirt was drenched in perspiration, my assailant suffered no more than a faint sheen on his face and heavy breathing. He mocked me with his resilience. I would wipe that smile off his face! All I had to do was exercise patience a little longer. He would make a mistake, and I would be ready. Step, shift, lunge, duck… With a low and frustrated grunt, he over extended his thrust. I seized my chance.

_Pivot at the waist,_

_Adjust the stance,_

_Step,_

_A flick of the wrist,_

_And my foil fell perfectly into place!_

Unfortunately, my counter attack had been anticipated. I found a small dagger at my throat. Surrendering, the blade fell from my sweaty palm. Resigning myself to defeat, I found myself the brunt of a cruel joke yet again. The victor's laughter ignited and released the aggression left over from this afternoon. I let loose.

All it took was one swift jab to his ribs.

The dagger dropped to the ground with a satisfactory clank. I whirled around to let loose the fury of my tongue. But one look at the expression on his face stopped me dead in my proverbial tracks. Gasping for air, he reminded me of the fish he had taught me to catch last summer at the lake.

I immediately dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"Ha! I drubbed you Henry! I thrashed you soundly!" I cried triumphantly in a slang that would have made Abuela positively livid, had she heard.

"Urmf… you didn't win, you cheated … you'll never beat me! Honestly Izzy…"

"Yes I will! And don't call me that!"

"Call you what, Izzy?" He asked so innocently I was tempted to laugh again. I barely kept a straight face.

"Ooo, don't make me hit you again!"

"Alright, alright, I give in! I don't dare brave the terror of your right hook!" My brother cowered in mock submission.

Our mirth was cut short by a respectful knock on the door of the fencing hall.

Frasquita entered with her characteristic quiet, marred only by a tiny grin.

"Senorita, your grandmother requests your presence in your bed chamber." She barely suppressed a chuckle as she took in my unkempt appearance. "But you may wish to change into something a bit more … presentable."

"Is everyone going to make fun of me today?" I threw up my hands playfully.

I knew that my nana was right. I must have looked a sight, dressed in one of Henry's hand me down fencing uniforms. It hung about me in billows of extra fabric, soaked in sweat. My hair was unkempt and slicked down, heavy with the results of my effort. I would most definitely have to change.

Unlike my mama, my grandmother was aware of my less that proper pursuit, but accepting my hobby and liking the fact that her granddaughter was desecrating the female ideal were two very different animals. It would be unwise to see her in my present state.

And even if I hadn't agreed with her statement, I probably would have done as she asked. Frasquita had been my nana since I was six. She was only ten years my superior, but I respected her judgment without question. She was like a second mother to me, sharing the role with my Abuela when Maman was so often absent.

"I suppose I shall need your help nana. Do you think you could smuggle me a clean …"

She merrily produced a thick blue dress from behind her back.

"My savior!"

"You are a mind reader!" cried Henry. "And I suppose that I ought to go now."

He gave me an affectionate kiss on my grimy head.

"Thank you, Henry. I was in dire need of the distraction."

"Don't you worry, Izzy. They'll come around. You'll be prima ballerina before you know it."

"Don't call me that!"

I felt a warm glow of pride as he left me to change. I _would_ confirm his faith in me. Nothing would stand in my way.

Nana deftly helped my out of the soiled smock and the tight pants. A fresh pair of stockings felt sublime on my tired legs. A loose corset and minimal under things came next. She tenderly helped me wash up before I stepped into the inviting day dress.

I tried to avoid thinking about the near future. I knew it would not be pleasant, even in the best of possibilities. Abuela was likely to have a conniption trying to dissuade me from what I wanted. I felt a pang of remorse, knowing that my choice would likely shame her. I half prayed she would understand.

Nana still wore a small smile. What did she know?

I had no time to guess. She finished my last button and gave me a little push towards the corridor, then began to pick up my objectionable clothing.

I was as ready as I would ever be.

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**Φ

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**

Her back was turned to me.

Quietly, I approached her with an anxious heart. I _would _go the academy, whatever the cost.

I could only hope it wouldn't be too much.

I steadied myself with a cold hand on the mahogany doorframe. Silently I waited for her to finish whatever she was doing at the end of my bed. Her dove gray hair crowned her slender frame in a gentle upsweep. She looked as though she belonged in a quaint painting. Even to my untrained eye, her long lined frame and the soft white linen of my bed made artistic contrast to the rich red paneling of my bedchamber walls.

All thought drained from my mind as my Abuela turned to me with a dignified murmur of her full buttery skirts. I set my face with a steady determination. I would need every ounce of strength that I could muster to match wills with the strong woman who moved to stand near me.

And yet…

A glimmer of amusement graced her thoughtful countenance. Few people would catch the subtle signs, but I saw the good-humored curve of the graceful creases at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps I would not need to fight today.

I was a bit confused. I had come expecting to debate in hot tones with her, expecting a stern face to great me. Instead, there was laughter in her sweet, blue-gray eyes.

A tiny shot of irritation coursed though me. Today, it seemed that every one was privy to a grand, cosmic joke that I was not let in on. I quickly dismissed the foolish emotion, waiting with baited breath to hear what Abuela would say.

I did not wait long.

"Well child, it was good of you to finally come!" She asserted with mock rebuke. "But I am glad that Frasquita managed to get you into something a bit more tolerable than those dreadful bloomers you've taken to parading around in."

A heated blush escaped my cheeks until she continued.

"I hope you don't intend to defile all my careful packing by taking any of those awful things with you."

My eyes widened as she stepped aside.

She had been carefully concealing two large trunks behind her. I could barely breathe.

"Thank you Abuela! I don't know what to say!"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something." She murmured lightheartedly.

I knelt down beside them in awe. I could hardly wrap my mind around what this meant.

"Are you giving me your blessing?"

"No Lealita, that I cannot give you," Her smile faded a little, "but I am willing to let you go regardless. You know what this will mean for you, don't you?"

"Yes Abuela. I know what I'm giving up. This is my dream and I won't ever want anything else."

"Only if you are sure."

"I am."

"Then I suppose I shall have to purchase season tickets. I won't say that I can bless you for your choice, but I am glad that you have the fire in you to chase your dream."

"Besides," she brightened, "I have wanted to see the subscriber's rotunda at the Garnier for ages. Now I have a good excuse."

I beamed up at her with adoring eyes.

"I will see this through. I won't give up. I promise."

"I know bebé, I have faith in you."

She gently embraced me and I twined my fragile arms around her chest. We stood there for a few moments, crying a few silent tears in our mixed emotions. The world around just left us alone for an instant in time.

Breaking away from my grasp, Abuela gently kissed her tears into my hair and ran her hands over my face. I was as though she were trying to memorize me from the outside in, catching every eyelash and stray hair in the galleries of her memory. I put my hand atop hers, trying my best not to cry again.

When we were both still, she began to speak again.

"Before you go off to your fame and fortune, nieta, there is something I want you to have."

She searched her skirts, fishing out a small silver chain bearing a single charm.

A tiny lead key.

I had not expected a gift! I stared in disbelieving curiosity. But what an odd gift!

Merely a simple key, it was not something I would have expected my grandmother to choose. Her taste in everything tended to lean towards the ornate, while this key was unpretentious in design and material. Somehow, I found its simplicity had an odd beauty of its own.

My quizzical look had not escaped Abuela's keen eye. She gave a short laugh.

"Perhaps I ought to explain. Come, sit next to me." She patted a spot on the pale green embroidered comforter. I complied, sinking into the welcoming down of my bed.

She reverently fingered the key, as though remembering something with loving care.

"This once belonged to your great great grandmother. It has been handed down from mother to daughter ever since then. I had been meaning to give this to you on your birthday, but I think you may be a bit too busy for a celebration by May."

"I won't ever be too busy for you!"

"No, not purposefully I'm sure," she said with an indulgent smile, "but I would just as soon you have it now."

"Thank you … so much …"

I felt a choking sensation in the back of my throat.

"Well, if you're going to tear up that easily, perhaps I shouldn't give you the other half."

"Other half?"

She bent down gently, retrieving a dark object from underneath the lacey dust ruffle. Then she laid it in my lap. A beautiful ebony box, inlaid with delicate veins of ivory and light stained wood. The hinged cover was decorated with a gracefully bending sprig of lilies of the valley. The fittings were silver, fragile and clean lined. I could tell that they had been fashioned to mimic the design of the key.

I couldn't wait to see inside. Looking up, I was about to ask Abuela to help me open it when she murmured to be still.

"I want you to promise me one thing, Lealita."

"What?"

"I'm going to put this with your things," she loving took the jewelry box from my lap and laid it atop the nearest trunk, "but I want you to wait until your birthday to open it."

She smiled at the sight of my consternation. I hated to wait, and I had a cat's proverbial curiosity.

"Please, humor me just this once."

"You know I will."

"However, this part of my gift is something for you to have now."

I bowed my head as she slipped the chain around my neck. A single tear traced down a little groove in her cheek. "Whenever you look at this, you can remember how much I love you."

Looking into her caring eyes, I knew that I would never forget.

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**Φ

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**

I held my breath until I could be sure that I wouldn't start weeping again.

I stared vacantly the last place I had seen them. Standing there, on the cool wooden planks of the floor, each golden white from years of sand scouring. Gazing at the weathered door set in the uneven oak wall. I was trying to burn each word, every expression into my memory. I knew it would be quite a while before I would have time see my family again.

The musty smell of my grandfather's cologne and the lavender scent that was my abuela's constant shadow. Nana's quiet words of wisdom. And mama's embrace, warmer than I could ever remember. The both of us had let out a few of our pent up tears, until Mama abruptly stopped. She rubbed my back and calmed me, speaking in a stern but gentle voice.

"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."

We just stood there together, until long after everyone else had left. I would never forget how she had turned at the door and spoken so softly that I could only just hear her. Her last words would echo forever in my heart.

"Je t'aime, hija."

And then she was gone.

* * *

I had to find something to occupy the next few empty hours. 

The winter season's first opera had finished only yesterday, so the academy was as still as a tomb. Everyone had gone home for the three day break or had gone out to enjoy themselves in the city. Even my new teacher was absent, this being her day off. Restlessly, I paced the few feet of floor space in the cramped dormitory room. I could hardly keep from bumping into something with every few steps. Much of the room was taken up with furniture.

My double bed was tucked into the corner furthest from the door. A second bed of the same size and style rested its headboard on the same wall, next to the door. Every piece in the room was crafted from the same creamy butterscotch wood, including the nightstand that separated the two beds. A polished hurricane lamp was perched atop it, next to a small stack of books that must have been my roommates'. The lamp was the only light I had bothered to ignite, despite the fading radiance of the sunset. The final pieces of furniture were a graying trunk at the foot of my roommates' bed and a derelict bookcase under the window. I noted that it was filled full of books and heavy paper folders.

My eyes fell on the trunks at the foot of my own bed. In contrast to the rest of the room's furnishings, they were opulent. Encased in rich leather and tooled in gold, the deep brown boxes were a bit embarassing. I didn't want my roommates to feel awkward if they weren't as well off as I. I decided to unpack immediately.

Well, before the end of break at the very least. My stomach had begun to rumble. I pondered locating the kitchens, but was hindered by a childish secret.

I was afraid of the dark.

Not even my mother knew, only nana. I had always asked her to light a candle at my bedside before I slept. Understandably, I was a little apprehensive about going out in the dark halls of the academy by myself, but my stomach was a much stronger force than my fear. I armed myself with a small candle that was sitting on the bottom of the washstand. Lighting it with the flame of the hurricane lamp, I stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind me.

The cleaning employee who had shone me to my room had mentioned that the dormitories had their own kitchens. I had not paid much attention to her mindless chattering, being rather focused on my family at the time. Now I was beginning to wish I had.

I had no idea where I was. Doorways and intersecting hallways were everywhere, like a giant shrubbery maze I had once seen on a trip to England with my Abuelos.

Without the shrubbery.

The only sound present in the shadowy corridors was the swish of my mellow green skirts. The flickering light of my candle cast eerie shadows everywhere. I was a bit frightened by my utter aloneness, and tiny noises began to grate on my already frazzled nerves. The shifting building around me creaked faintly in the wind.

It was as though I had been transported into a passage of an Edgar Allen Poe story. To make things worse, I had the unshakeable sensation that I was no longer alone. Could it be the same watcher I had felt the day of my audition?

Without warning, I was ruthlessly jolted from my discomfort by an unmistakable sound echoing all around me:

An ear piercing scream of terror!

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**Φ**

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_**Authoress's Notes: ** I've got the music from ALW's new musical, Woman in White, stuck in my head. That's what I get for letting a friend of mine drive... Last night, I went to see my first live Profesional football game (American football, not soccer). I had a blast!_

**

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Avid-** Oui, tongue is an evil word! (thank goodness for spellcheck) And of course you can have cheesecake! You deserve every sinfully-sweet, bad-for-the-hips-but-too-good-to-resist morsel. I bequeath unto thee, double chocolate chip cheesecake, so have at!


	9. IX

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	10. The Spice of Life

**

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Chapter Five: The Spice of Life

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Leah**

An ear piercing scream of terror!

I hurriedly blew out the candle and dropped it in my flight. I could only think of finding the girl who was in obvious peril. Had she been attacked by the ominous presence that had been hovering near me?

Hurtling towards the last echo of her screams in utter darkness, I collided with several walls. I didn't care. An instinct that I couldn't describe took complete control. I was driven to find her.

Just then, a pair of monstrous doors loomed before me. I rushed through them, uncertain of where I was running.

"Hello? Are you alright?" I called out with all the wind I could summon.

I was taken aback. I had no idea where I was, but my voice echoed in a vast space, fading into nothingness.

Then I caught a faint reply, from somewhere beneath me. Suddenly I was very glad I had stopped only a few feet from the doors. How far was it until the drop off?

"Ohmygawd! Sammie, did you hear that?" Came a light, crystalline voice.

That was the girl who was screaming! She didn't sound hurt! What was going on? And who on earth was "Sammie"?

"Holy Mother Mary! It's the ghost!" A squeal came from a slightly different direction.

"We're all going to die!" Said the first voice.

"Isn't the ghost a man? I thought it was a man." Another voice echoed somewhere nearer to the first.

"Who cares if it's a bushy-tailed squirrel? We're all going to die!"

"I'm too young to die!" Cried a fourth girl.

"Somebody save me!" Wailed a fifth.

A clamor of girls bemoaned their immanent deaths until they were abruptly silenced.

"Hush, you ninnies! Hello? Are you looking for us?" Answered a low, slightly raspy voice with an unusual accent.

"Um, perhaps? I heard your screaming. I thought someone was hurt."

There was a low peppering of titters and giggles from the faceless group below.

I felt like an idiot.

Not only was I completely unsure of where I was, I was yelling at the top of my lungs to a strange bunch of girls in utter darkness. And how could someplace so large not have any windows? It was barely 6:30 in the evening, but I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.

"Oh! No, no one is hurt. We were playing a game." It was the low, sensible voice again. I heard a hint of amusement in her tone at my reaction, and a tinge of embarrassment at admitting she was playing a game.

The giggles were back in full force.

I hated to ask, but there was no other way to find out what I wanted to know. "This is going to sound a bit odd, but where are we?"

Someone began to positively shriek with laughter.

How dare they! They must be chorus girls or ballet rats. Did they know who they were mocking? They had no right! What impertinence!

When I figured out where they were, I would give them something to scream about!

**

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**

It took the girls some time to find me in the darkness of the theater proper, and by the time we met face to face, my temper had cooled noticeably.

So had my expectations of my fellow performers.

The moment they found me, I was surrounded by a giggling bunch of girls, most younger than myself. Introductions went by in a blur, and I was soon invited to dinner in the dormitory kitchens.

More than one way to skin a cat, I suppose.

Not that I would ever want to skin a cat, for I was rather fond of the creatures. But fondness was an attitude that I did not have when it came to my new acquaintances.

I had once thought that I would find friends here, yet the only thing I had found was a bunch of brainless ninnies who were an insult to ballet rats everywhere. It seemed the only topics to cross their minds were boys and parties.

The only tolerable ones in the entire group were Mademoiselles Keller and Giry. Both were older than me, but that didn't seem to make a great deal of difference to either of them.

Samantha Keller (the infamous Sammy of the little girl's cries) was the calm, rational voice who had first replied to me in the dark. She was petite, dark eyed and raven haired, with milky cream skin. She looked like a porcelain doll, but even after only a few moments' acquaintance, I knew that she was definitely not as she appeared.

I had been surprised to find out that she wasn't related to Madame Giry, as I could see pieces of the ballet mistress's personality in her fiery, no nonsense spirit. In spite of my earlier foolishness, she seemed to coolly accept my companionship.

If Samantha was a bit chilly, Bethany Giry made up for it ten times over.

The moment I met her, I felt as though I had just been wrapped in a warm embrace. Her smile was inviting, and her quiet manner was comforting, especially compared to the mindless chattering and foolish questions of all the younger girls. At first, I could not remember why she seemed so very familiar, but then it hit me.

She was the girl I had wanted to talk to on the day of my audition! Where was … there! Her little sister was trailing behind us. The little blond was a talkative child, babbling on about how much she was looking forward to dinner in the manner of any excitable eight-year old.

"…But Auntie Joanie won't be back till rehearsals are back, so Beth is cooking tonight. I think that she is…"

The elder Giry merely smiled and ruffled her little sister's blond hair. "Aunt Joanie is what we call Mme. Theed, the academy cook. She is one of our mother's best friends. She has a bit of a temper, so most of the girls are a bit wary of her, but Maman chalks it up to the fact that she has the natural spicy disposition of a red-headed Irish woman … though I'm not quite sure what she means by that…"

The kitchen door appeared as a bright rectangle of light in the darkness of the hall. What a sweet relief. I had been nervous and tense throughout our trek in the maze of black hallways. I hated the dark!

As we approached the inviting threshold, I grew curious. "Mam'selle Bethany, your sister mentioned something about you cooking this evening. What did she mean?"

"Firstly, if you are to be a member of the corps, there will be no more of this 'Mam'selle this, Mam'selle that'. You are a member of our family!" She spoke with mock sternness. "I am Beth, not Bethany, and you are Leah, no?" She smiled brilliantly, warming my heart with the sight.

"Oui, Beth."

"That is wonderful to hear, Leah. Now, as for your other question, oui, I cook meals when Mme. Theed is away. There are not many girls who remain in the dormitories during break, and cooking for them is good practice for making food for a family some day."

"You will help me, yes?"

_WHAT?_  
**

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Eric

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**

I was heading for my apartments when I heard heated laughter.

Intrigued, I set my new purchases on the cold floor of the dark hallway. Stepping nearer to the wall, I slipped a small tile out of its place in the kitchen wall. In a long unused corner, the tiny peephole had often provided some of my most interesting insights into the dancers in the Opera's ballet corps. I had watched them laugh and cry here, growing remotely attached to the sounds of their familiar voices. I felt almost as though I knew them.

An idiot's dream, but an unquenchable one at that.

I sometimes found myself longing to join them, even though I knew the idea to be absurd. One look at my mask and half of those silly girls would have fainted dead away, leaving the other half to scream at the top of their tiny vocal ranges. The thought made me chuckle.

I suppose it was partially due to my own propensity to amuse myself at their expense.

They were really quite amusing, always jumping at every trick in the book. Spooky noises, moving shadows, whatever caught my fancy. Life without such simple diversions would have been too quiet.

"It has been some time since we last 'played', girls." I mused quietly as I watched several of the little dancers quibble back and forth with one another while cooking. A pot of marinara sauce simmered on the stove, unwatched, beneath my lookout.

"Perhaps you would like to sample some of my cooking, as it seems that you have abandoned yours."

I had bought some spices for my own cooking earlier that afternoon, and I now saw it to be a quite fortuitous purchase. I was not much of a cook, but I appreciated good seasoning as much as any true connoisseur. Well spiced food was one of the great joys in life."

I only hoped the ballet rats would agree.

Sliding the wall panel shut, I sighed, amused and a bit lonely all at once. Picking up my bags, I traveled further into the bowels of the Opera.

**

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Φ

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**

**Camille-** Of course I shall call you Camille ... but only if you will color me gray ... mmm, my name doesn't seem to work as a command nearly as well as yours does... Oh well! And as for the cliffhanger, all is fair in love, war and ... fanfiction? Sure, what the heck!

And we like you too, cause we think you are neat! Me, Leah, Eric with a 'c', and all the other little people in my head... hehe. Don't mind my twisted sense of humor, you'll get used to it if you keep reveiwing. And I hope you do keep reviewing, cause then you'll get more cheesecake! (she hands you a slice of cheesecake.) Enjoy!


	11. XI

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	12. XII

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	13. Sparrow

**Chapter Six: Sparrow**

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**

_Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  
And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father's will.  
But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.  
Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows._

_Matthew 10:29-31_

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Φ

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**Leah**

There was screaming all around me.

Or was there? Wait… It was me! I was screaming? But why?

And where was I?

I found my self bolt upright in bed, clutching a linen sheet to my chest. As my vision cleared, I realized where I was. The Opera House! Of course.

But still, the nagging question of my screaming. I must have had a nightmare, for it certainly wasn't morning. The sun had just barely nudged its head out from under the warm blanket of night. It cast a weak red luminescence on everything in the room. The white towel on the washstand had turned a cheerful shade of pink. The utilitarian navy blue of the comforters seemed almost purple as they embraced the sleeping forms of my roommates.

It was only then that I realized I wasn't the only one up.

There was a small movement beside me in the bed, and a sleepy groan. A small face ventured out of the blankets.

She was so adorable! I had never had a little sister, but after the events of last night, I felt an odd bond with the lump in the blankets beside me.

I had not expected to spend my first night here working in a kitchen. I was glad none of my family had been there! Abuela would have had a coronary attack.

At first, I had only felt shame and humiliation. When I had dreamed of coming to the Opera House, I knew that it would cost me dearly. The ballet corps was not exactly a refined finishing school. Far from it. They were reputed to be more of a brothel. After my brief conversations with a small section of the troupe, I understood why.

I knew that my chances at a respectable marriage were all but dead. It had not been easy to come here knowing what I would give up. Wedding an eligible man and raising a family was the only respectable profession for an aristocratic young woman. I also knew all too well that I would have less and less contact with my family after Maman's mariage to that awfull Lord Beecher. But I had made my choice.

I would be married to my dancing.

But cooking dinner? Like a common servant? At first Beth's question had stirred up emotions of outrage in my breast. And yet, she seemed so innocent about asking. And why shouldn't she? I had decided earlier to avoid the complications that would inevitably come from being too free with my full name. She couldn't know what a degrading task she was asking of me. I couldn't refuse something so innocently requested of me.

I had to admit to myself that I no longer had the right to think of myself as anything more important than any of the other dancers here. It took so much more effort than I had ever thought possible just to reply with a simple "yes". With that one word, my whole world changed.

And as much as I hated to admit it to myself, part of me began to enjoy the demeaning exercise. Beth had set me to mincing up some kind of herb. The green, leafy stuff had a beautiful foreign sounding name that rolled off of my tongue like a light sigh. As I chopped methodically, I fell into an odd rhythm with Beth as she kneaded the dough for the crusty bread. I began to enjoy the colors and smells that surrounded me: The way Beth had tucked her hair behind her ear with a floury hand, and our young companion, always full of childish jokes and foolishness.

She nearly fell from her seat, shaking with laughter when I had been the first to taste the sauce, for Beth must have added to much spice. One taste was enough to kill several taste buds. It was terribly hot, and my face had turned bright red while Meg positively howled with glee.

But I heard no laughter from her now.

Little Meg was a mess, her bond hair tousled at odd angles. Her groggy eyes were only thin slits as she stared at me, scrunching up her tiny forehead as though I were a complicated riddle. I couldn't help a small giggle. Already flustered at being awakened, Meg's mood was not improved by my ridicule.

Seeking support from someone who had more experience with being a big sister, I glanced over to Beth's slightly smaller bed. To my surprise, the lump I had thought to be a sleeping body was only a pile of blankets. Turning to Meg, I couldn't contain my concern.

"Where's Beth?"

"Mrmf … go back to bed Hannah … it's Sunday, we don't have to be up yet …"

I shook the child firmly, loosing patience in my worry.

"Meg, where's your sister? She's not here!"

Growing more aware of her surroundings, she shot me a glare of pure exasperation. Pulling the blue comforter closer around herself, she mumbled to me under her breath before rolling over, taking the blankets with her.

"Erg … Leah, she's just on the roof. Go back to bed!"

"WHAT?"

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**

It had taken several minutes longer to rouse Meg enough to get directions to the roof. I gave up trying to discover why Beth was high above the city, for the child kept shooting me glares that could have rivaled any of Satan's minions. Only her eyes and nose had resurfaced from the deep blue sea of our quilt, muffling her reply.

Perhaps that was for the best, as some of our little chat was, shall we say, less than Christian.

Meg was obviously not a morning person.

I steeled my resolve and stepped out of the covers, despite my body's insistence against the chilly air. I immediately regretted having done so.

"Good gracious!" I thought. Robed only in my thin cream shift and pantalets, I shivered uncontrollably. Sleeveless and edged in Venetian lace, the delicate undergarment was far too light to be traipsing about in though all the empty halls of the Opera House. I snatched up a brown throw from Beth's bed and tossed it over my shoulders. With another rude grunt, Meg flipped the covers back over her head and turned to her other side.

Leaving her to her blissful dreams, I hoped that I had wakened her enough to get an accurate bearing on the direction of the roof. Three lefts, next stair on your right, …

At the top of three flights of stairs, I found my hard earned prize. Cold morning air seeped under the bottom of an old door at the end of a damp, musky corridor. Upon closer inspection, the knob was rusted, and the red paint was chipped and peeling. From somewhere beyond the door came a faint sound. Tiptoeing closer still, I pressed an ear to the splintered wood.

Singing.

The melody was sweet and low. It was remarkably different from my Abuela's light voice, yet still pleasantly comforting. A bittersweet pang of homesickness stuck in the back of my throat at the smarting memory of my grandmother's soaring coloratura. A tear came to the corner of my eye, but I bit it back, remembering my some of my mother's parting words…

_"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."_

Breaking the peaceful reverie of my eavesdropping, I decided it was time to find out just precisely what Beth was doing up here.

I stood up and examined the door once again, wondering how hard it would be to open it. Expecting resistance from the questionable hinges, I threw my bony shoulder into the door.

In the split seconds before I hit the grey tiles of the rooftop, I reflected that perhaps I shouldn't have questioned those hinges with so much force. And my meditations were proved true upon impact. I glanced up, bleary eyed by the sudden burst of light. I turned my head to see an amazing sight. As I lay on my back, I could only gape in wonder.

It was a scene I could only imagine in the confines of the bible, or a storyteller's web.

The noise of my entrance had startled a vast flock of songbirds into flight. Each was outlined in contrast as I looked directly into the rising sun. Doves, sparrows, larks, every bird I could imagine, taking flight in a great swirling cloud that spiraled to the pastel heavens.

Completing the heavenly scene, Beth stood before me, her disheveled hair moving gently in the morning breeze. I could not make out the details of her person, for she appeared as a dark flat shape while the rising sun bloomed into a bright halo behind her.

Beth leaned down to take my hand.

I hastily catalogued the image away in my mind for later. What a painting that would be! If only I could get it to come out right. The way the birds dotted the sky. The dappled light of the sun rising in the east. Beth's auburn hair blowing out behind her in a halo.

But I couldn't focus on the painting I was planning. My insatiable curiosity was near exploding and the words just tumbled out without a thought as to what I was saying.

"What on earth are you doing up here?"

I wanted to strike myself. It had sounded like I was accusing her of a crime.

Thankfully, Beth chose to ignore my tone and continued helping me up. Then I caught a glimpse of the mischievous smile she was wearing. As I stood up, I could hear a quiet giggle escape her.

The familiar feelings of indignation and anger rose up inside me. Didn't she know who she was laughing at? How dare she laugh at…

I just barely caught myself before I let loose.

Nearly biting my tongue, I slowly calmed myself, trying to be objective.

"You aren't anything special anymore. You're no better than anyone else." I told myself firmly.

It took all my strength to keep that reality fixed in my mind. She didn't know who I was, and I wasn't that person anymore to begin with. So what was so funny?

I had to admit, my entrance had been less than graceful. I couldn't help the laughter I felt bubbling up in my throat. I snorted at the thought of what a sight I must have been. Beth joined me, and neither of us could stop for several minutes. Our laughter filled the chilly air, sending more disgruntled birds to join their companions in the sky.

When we ran out of breath at last, Beth took me by the hand and led me to the other side of the peak in the roof. She had laid out a small blanket on the cool slate shingles to soak up the dew. She quickly shifted the blanket's only occupants, a small stack of books, to one side and gestured for me to sit down with her. Idly fingering the spine of one of her books, I repeated my question. This time I made sure to watch my tone.

"So what are you doing up here? And what time is it anyway?"

She leaned back and pondered my questions for a minute before responding.

"Well, I came up here at about five o'clock. I'm not sure exactly how long I've been up here though. As for the other thing, I've been reading."

I rifled through the short pile beside me.

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens,

Pride and Prejudice…

"Do you come up here every morning?"

"Mmh." She answered to the affirmative, reaching over me for a thicker, leather bound volume. She flipped through it until she found a small paper bookmarker.

Then she turned to me and asked, "Do you mind if I keep reading?"

"Not at all! Would you rather I went back downstairs?"

"Not if you don't want to." She replied nonchalantly and began to pursue the next passage.

I pondered getting up for a moment, but decided against it, leaning all the way back onto the blanket and rearranging the throw I had brought up so that it covered my cold feet. I laid back and quietly watched the sparse clouds grow brighter in the sky as the sun continued to rise. After a few minutes, I became rather restless and turned to watch Beth as she read.

She seemed oblivious to the outside world, completely immersed in her book. There was a faint smile on the edge of her lips and at the corners of her gray-green eyes. My curiosity was sparked, and I broke the pleasant silence before I had the time to think.

"What're you reading?"

She looked up, a bit dazed at being interrupted. I instantly regretted having spoken. Then she smiled sweetly at my inquisitiveness.

"Would you like to see?"

She scooted near to me and began to read.

_"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  
And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father's will.  
But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.  
Fear not, therefore;  
You are of more value than many sparrows."_

Well! That certainly wasn't Charles Dickens.  
**

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Beth

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**

"The Bible?"

Leah looked up with such a childish kind of interest that I found myself smiling. Though she was only a year younger than me, right now she gave me a strong impression of Meg. "Odd," I mused silently, "how easy it is to shed the years instantaneously"

Or gain them.

Last night I had seen Leah perform that miracle as well.

Most of the evening had been filled with jokes and laughter. My smile widened a tad at the memory of Leah's face when she had sampled my sauce. I had thought her eyes were going to escape their sockets.

That still puzzled me. I couldn't remember having added any pepper. It was still quite humorous, regardless of the whys and hows.

But the night had latter turned to topics of a more meaningful nature. She had been curious about our family, and Meg was more than willing to share. When I had returned the question though, she had drawn in, strangely silent.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she had hugged them close to her body, closing her eyes. As she opened them again, it seemed that I watched her age a hundred years in a few seconds. Her gray irises looked cold, older than the earth.

Like something dead since the beginning of time.

Just then, Meg had burst out shouting. The crazy kid had tried some more of the sauce. By the time I turned back to Leah, she had pulled herself back to the real world, looking no older than her youthful fifteen.

As she did now.

Back in the here and now, Leah was scrutinizing my facial expressions, trying to discover why I had fallen silent in response to her question. She cocked her eyebrow at the movement of my head, wordlessly repeating her original question.

"Oui, the Bible. Do you understand what the passage means?"

"Um…yes?"

"Is that an answer or a question?" I laughed.

"Well, I suppose I ought know what it means. My ab … my grandmother has been dragging me to church every Sunday since before I could remember."

"Don't you like church?" I asked inquisitively. Church had always been a refuge for me. A place where it was easy to feel near to God. I was difficult to think of his house as a boring place, although I suppose there had been more than a few instances where I had fallen asleep during services.

"Not really. I've been told constantly that I ought to be filled with a spirt of reverance and worship, or something of the like, but I honestly find it dull. I would wager that half of the people there feel the same way that I do every Sunday, and simply do not say it aloud. Do you understand what I mean?

"Mmm, I suppose so."

"Do you mean to say that you enjoy going to church?" She asked, a bit disbelieving.

"Yes, most of the time at least. I feel very near to God there. I'm not sure how to explain it. We've had some of our best conversations there."

"Conversations? We?"

"Me and God."

There was that cocked eyebrow again.

"You talk to God? As in you hear voices or some such? Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, perfectly fine!" I giggled at the thought. "That didn't come out quite the way I intended. Perhaps I should call it prayer."

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Leah

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**"Prayer?" I queried, still rather confused. "Prayer is just memorizing passages from a prayer book. How is that talking to God? Isn't God just some bright light off in the far corners of the sky somewhere? And if He is so powerful, why would he even want to talk to us?"

Beth tilted her head to the side and gazed into the pale clouds thoughtfully before answering. It seemed that she was choosing her words carefully.

"I suppose I've always thought of God as a very good friend."

What was she talking about? A friend? What friend would be so deaf to all my years of praying?

And yet … she seemed so very convicted. Though I wanted to block out her words, I was compelled to listen.

"I talk to him the same way that I am talking to you right now." The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly as she contemplated the idea fondly. "I tell him what's on my mind. The highlights of my day, the difficulties. I ask him to help me when I need it, and thank him when he does."

"And what about when he doesn't?" I wondered. I managed not to say it out loud. I just couldn't. Beth seemed so utterly convinced that what she was saying was true. I had to admit, it did sound rather comforting. She fell silent, and now it was I who chose my words carefully. I didn't want to be indelicate about something so important to my new friend.

"But how is that a conversation? Don't you need two people for that? I suppose you could do it with one, but people tend to think you a tad insane if you start talking to people who aren't there. Do you hear voices?"

"No, I don't hear the voice of God, silly! Although it is possible. No, God does speak to me, just not audibly. This is how." She hefted her worn Bible…

Beth spent the rest of the morning explaining her philosophies to me, but the clarifications merely served to confuse me further.

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**Authoress's Notes:** Wow, the language in this chapter still really sucks, even after my vain attempts to edit it. Please don't hate me for this terribly written update, I swear that they get better eventually! And review, dearies, review! I give cheesecake… (she waves a slice of fresh cheesecake seductively under her reader's communal noses)


	14. XIV

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	15. XV

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	16. The Walls

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Chapter Seven: Walls

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**Leah**

Beth's word ricocheted furiously inside the confines of my head.

I couldn't stop picturing the expressions of her face. Her gentle smile as she read. Her patient conviction, her complete faith and trust.

It wasn't that I was convinced. Not by any means. I couldn't bring myself to believe in this kind, compassionate picture of God that she had painted.

No, God was a myth, a fairytale to pacify small children and comfort the dying. What manner of loving God would allow my father to die? And allow my mother's spirit to go with him?

I had spent years building up walls around my heart to keep this very sort of thing from happening, in much the same way that I guarded myself from friendship and false fathers. It was too painful to keep trying to hope that God would show compassion for me and then to be constantly let down. God was only an illusion for the deluded and the happy.

Still, it _was_ a beautiful picture.

And part of me, I realized, honestly wished that I was still naive enough to believe in such a fairytale. I wanted it more than I had wanted anything in a very long time.

To say that I was confused by Beth's fait would have been a terrible understatement.

I had been ruminating over these thoughts and questions for three long, puzzling days. It seemed that nothing could deter them from continuing while I was idle, as though my mind was no longer my own. Troubling as it was, I found ways to keep busy and avoid thinking about it during the three day break.

Walking aimlessly about the corridors of my new home was my current occupation. Truthfully, my amblings were merely an excuse to think on the new life I had begun without the company of the rest of the girls in the building. Though I had gotten to know several of them and was beginning to find friendly faces in this foreign land, I was still a bit of an introvert by nature. I was finding it very difficult to let anyone close to me, for I was still very leery of rejection.

Despite my reluctance, my new roommates had proved to be the companions I had hoped for, especially Beth. She had not mentioned our conversation on the roof after that morning, seeming to sense my uncertainty and inability to express how I felt.

Disregarding my initial reactions to her beliefs, she had invited me to join her the next morning. Strangely enough, I had accepted. I don't think either of us truly expected to find me on the roof early the next day.

I'm not sure which of us was more shocked.

Still, after the initial awkwardness of my presence had worn off, I had been pleasantly surprised. We had soon settled down into an amiable silence of reading side by side on her blanket, quietly finding cheerfulness in one another's company.

Not yet ready to repeat the religious topics of the day before, I had brought a thick novel of my own, a favorite fairytale called 'Bee, Princess of the Dwarves'. Though I was a bit old to be reading fairytales, I still enjoyed them right along side my thick novels and explorer's accounts.

Beth had smiled and perked up an eyebrow at the sight of a new book and asked about the story line. I happily complied, telling her the story about childhood sweethearts who are seperated in their youth and grow up apart in strange and wonderful lands, but never forget each other, and the tale of how they once again came to be together. Acting on my instincts, I offered to share my small stack of books with her. Apparently, I had found a fellow bibliophile in this wispy, gently girl.

In sharing a small part of myself with her, I felt a certain degree of relief, as though my walls were beginning to sway. I was unsure if this was a good thing or not, but hesitantly began to open the doors of my soul. My first few attempts to speak to her that day left us both a bit awkward and silent. I felt exceptionally stupid, for I had no idea of what one ought to speak about when attempting to make a friend. What should I say?

Eventually, Beth steered the uncomfortable lack of conversation in the direction of one of the few things we seemed to have in common, books. After that, words had flowed easily between us. I no longer felt as though I was on unfamiliar ground.

Later that night, we traded worn copies of our favorite books like drug smugglers eager for new addictions. We conversed long into the evening about those that we had both read, and exchanged stories of others. Our reverie lasted for hours, drawing out into the early morning when we could no longer hear more sounds of our fellow dancers (or their male friends) through the paper thin walls. I was eternally grateful to my Abuela for having sent so many of my books along. She had packed quite insightfully for me, as one of my trunks was nearly jam-packed solely with books. In fact, the only other thing that had fit into the chest had been my painting supplies.

That was another reason I was wandering the halls. I was in search of an unused room to stake claim to. Meg had seen me unpacking and had seen my paints. Curiosity sparked, Meg had made a verbal assault on my person, launching into a thousand questions at once.

"Are those real paints?"

"Do you really paint? Like the artists who study us during rehearsals?"

"Can you show me how?"

I burst out laughing. She had so much energy, such an innocent enthusiasm for life. She made me feel strangely alive. It was absolutely infectious.

Responding to one question after another, we soon reached an agreement that satisfied us both. I mentioned that I was in need of a quiet place to paint, and she had been happy to tell me where to look. In return, I had gladly decided to show her what little I knew. And now I was in hot pursuit of said 'studio'.

Apparently, there were several vacant rooms scattered about the Garnier: dormant dressing rooms, musty attics, and forgotten storage chambers. Evidently, any one in the cast or the staff was given free access to the unneeded rooms, provided nothing was damaged. Meg had said that several dancers had commandeered rooms to practice in.

The sweet little girl had proved to be quite helpful in directing me to several dusty corners, but none had had enough light to paint by. I was advancing on the last of my targets, hoping to find something better suited to my needs. The door was hiding in the half light of the gloomy hallway in the upper stories of the opera house. A turn of the bronze knob opened the squealing entry.

Didn't anyone in this opera house know how to oil door hinges?

I hadn't been prepared for the intensity of the cheerful afternoon light, and I needed a few moments for my eyes to adjust from the dimness of the hallway. I hurriedly swatted away the aggressive cobwebs that hung about me, tangling in my hair. No wonder no one had ever wanted to use this room. It was filthy!

Dust motes hung suspended in the air, dangling like grainy stars in the warmth of the sparkling afternoon. I stepped further into the cluttered circular room. It was lit up by grimy porthole windows.

I knew that I would definitely need to do some extensive cleaning if I meant to use the space. Cleaning, however, was not something I had much experience in. Perhaps Meg would be willing to show me. Satisfied with my find, I left in search of my young friend.

I didn't get very far, for I soon heard Amanda and Alana.

The sound wasn't entirely pleasant, but I choose to investigate in spite of my ears' reluctance to do so. I remembered them from my first night here when Beth had introduced them to me as two of her closest companions. If I were going to learn how to be friendly with Beth, I might as well begin by getting to know her friends.

The tall twin girls were very pretty, with long, light brown hair and ruddy complexions. They were slim and well muscled from years of dancing. Their eyes captured me with the same warmth I felt in the afternoon sun, all bottled up behind sweet blues and greens that reminded me of the ocean, and their light Irish accents made their speaking voices an interesting contrast to much of the rest of the Garnier.

As I neared the door, I gave a little inward twinge, for neither had a great deal of talent. Alana played the piano, haltingly and often striking the wrong notes, while Amanda was not always on pitch.

Privately, I thought they sounded like a sick old goat that was trying to play a set of bagpipes left out to long in the rain.

Still, they did seem to be enjoying themselves.

At the sound of my foot steps, they turned around, looking more than a little embarrassed at being overheard.

"Oh dear." Groaned Amanda. "No one was supposed to be listening to that." She gave me a half-hearted grin, attempting to make the situation into a joke and failing miserably.

Alana looked as though she wanted disappear, or simply fall dead on the spot, mortified that they had been discovered. "No, we didn't think that anyone was listening…"

The uncomfortable silence returned with a vengeance.

A tiny twinkle returned to Amanda's eye after a few moments. "Guess we ought to keep to our dancing, no?"

A soft giggle escaped me.

My initial uneasiness faded away as we talked. Their candid attitude was inviting and open. Amanda was straightforward and one might even call her blunt. Alana was a bit more … shall we say … easily distracted, often gazing off into space and misplacing things, but very sweet. We walked to our rooms late that night, and they bid me fare well at my door.

"Goodnight dear!"

"Yes, we'll see you in rehearsal tomorrow!"

Their gentleness with my heart made me ache to get to know them. I felt like I had just found my long lost big sisters. Perhaps I would find a surrogate family here after all. Family… what a wonderful dream.

But could I ever learn what that word meant?

Could I willingly leave myself so vulnerable as to hope? What about my walls, and keeping my heart safe from hurting?

I wouldn't ever know if I didn't try.

And if I didn't try, I knew in my heart I would regret it.

It would not be easy to reopen my soul to caring about people so deeply again, but it was worth trying for.

**

* * *

**

**Φ**

**

* * *

**

The next few weeks managed to incite almost every emotion I possessed.

Contentment, fulfillment, joy, homesickness, jealousy, anger…

And some I never even knew I had.

The only emotion that remained constant was the peace that washed over me during my time on the roof every morning. I was still rather wary of Beth's ideas about God, but she seemed to respect my opinion enough not to bring it up again. And Meg continued to amuse us all with her innocent fun and wild tales about a ghost that haunted the Opera.

I could remember having an imaginary friend when I was her age. Still, this make believe ghost of her's was a bit more realistic than anything I had ever cooked up. She went so far as to attribute every unusual happening at the Garnier to her strange 'phantom'.

Silly girl.

With a little help and a few tips from my roommates, I was spending my afternoons cleaning out the musty attic room over the subscriber's rotunda. Nearly half the room was concealed by mounds of debris and rubbish under a thick blanket of dust.

Two weeks worth of elbow grease and several buckets of soapy lemon water later, the gleaming cedar wood floors began to emerge. And that wasn't all. The only salvageable object in the entire attic was one I never would have expected, an old (and rather battered) upright piano.

At first, I couldn't wrap my head around what such instrument was doing there, much less how it had gotten there. It was far too large to have been moved through the door. Beth's mother had later informed me that the circular attic had originally been a small chorus recital room.

When the Garnier was first built, the piano had been hoisted in before the walls were finished. When a new choirmaster was hired a few years later, he requested a different room. Rumor had it that the switch was due to the fact that he was overweight and disliked the effort of ten flights of stairs.

Whatever his reasons, I was now the proud 'owner' of the lovely piano. I had never learned to play very well, but perhaps this would provide me with the chance. Alana had even said that the great black thing didn't require tuning, though I was not sure if she actually knew what she was talking about.

Alana and Amanda were also growing dearer to my heart. Besides Alana's dubious instrumental wisdom, they had even offered to help me with my dancing after a particularly embarrassing rehearsal.

It had all started with a girl named Sorelli.

She and her little flock of followers had seemed kind enough at first. Besides, Samantha was good friends with her. It seemed like every girl our age ran in Sorelli's circle … that was except for the ones who mattered most.

Beth, Amanda, Alana, and a handful of others all kept their distance from the rest of the corps, and little Meg followed suit. I had never been very good at picking up on social clues, but even I could tell the two groups were at odds. I didn't know how to ask them what the problem was.

My Grandfather had been right about me. I never would have made much of a politician.

And even though I felt a deep attachment to my new little family, I still felt obligated to be polite to mademoiselle Sorelli. My Abuela had been a stickler for etiquette, putting me through endless lessons and years of finishing school. I had to at least attempt to make the niceties.

I swallowed my fear once again and walked over to the tittering group of girls, addressing myself to Sorelli, their obvious leader.

She picked up her head and affected a superior smile, flashing her brilliant white teeth. She was only little older than Beth. Her burnished blond hair, ice white blue eyes, and pallid complexion belonged to a princess or a painting in the Louvre. No wonder she was rumored to be a favorite of the Opera's elite subscribers.

Bashful again, I couldn't remember what I had done with my tongue. She spoke up for me.

"Hello. You must be the new girl. I am Sorelli." You could hear the capital S in her voice. She was beautiful and talented. And she knew it.

I felt three inches tall.

"My name is Leah." It came out much softer than I had intended.

The smiles on the faces of her lackeys deepened. Just then, Madame Giry glided in. With a firm rap of her cane on the scuffed floor of the rehearsal hall, she silently initiated the beginning of practice. In the rush to get to my position, I nearly missed Sorelli's undertone as my back was turned.

"Look at her run. Back to talk to the other second rate dancers."

Their giggles boiled my blood.

I stood next to Beth during rehearsals.

It was one thing to insult my aptitude for ballet.

Because I had been accepted late in the season, I was relegated to an understudy role for the year. I wasn't sure if I should have been furious or grateful.

It had taken me several days of practice to admit to my self the blatantly obvious facts, but I finally admitted my defeat. I didn't even deserve my alternate position. I had always believed myself to be an excellent ballerina, that I belonged to the crème de la crème of the dance world.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

As I watched the other young women float effortlessly through the routine, I acknowledged that they all had something that I never would: grace, ease … some invisible quality that I couldn't quite name. But it was very real. The way their bodies curved as they surged from one movement to the next stirred up sharp edged envy in my heart. Now I knew that late admittance was just an excuse for keeping me in the line of understudies. So the sting of Sorelli's insult was not nearly as deeply felt as they could have been, except for her words against Beth.

The only reason that Beth was anywhere near the alternate's row was because she had injured her ankle!

In fact, Beth and Meg were some of the most amazing dancers I had ever seen. Their form was very nearly perfect. Their exquisite balance was astounding. And the twins weren't far behind, matching Sorelli turn for turn. It didn't hurt that Madame had been teaching the four of them since before they could crawl.

And now that twit thought she could insult her?

How dare she! That conniving, despicable… Several choice words came to mind to describe her.

I felt my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. Thoughts of the best ways to hit her ran through my head.

Then a vision of Henry's face faded into my thoughts, accompanied by his laughing voice that had once attended one of our fencing lessons.

"Don't get mad Izzy! That won't get you anywhere. Where are your manners? If you want to do something about the fact that I won another match," he smiled, "you'll just have to practice more."

"Then you can get even."


	17. XVII

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	18. Possession

**

* * *

Chapter Eight: Possession

* * *

**

**Eric**

I had the harassing urge to slowly choke the life out of him.

That man, that _fool_, had tossed the precious portfolio into his wastebasket without anything more than a flip through its lovingly written pages.

Now three years of my sweat and blood lay disregarded like so much scrap paper at the bottom of a trash receptacle.

I felt my blood warm like the relentless desert sun. The muscles in my chest began to clench.

He had tossed away my music!

My life.

My music had been the one friend who had never left me. When my mother lay locked in her room, when Mitra had escaped me, when I made my first kill…the music had been there. It had comforted me, expressed the emotions I was incapable of giving voice to, given me a reason to live.

It had given me inspiration for countless pieces. Finally, I had decided that it was tantamount to a crime to hide my work away in the dusty recesses of the cellars. I had left the finished copy of my newest opera on Poligany's desk.

And that _cretin_ had discarded it without a thought.

Images of M Poligany gasping and writhing in my vice like grip flashed before my eyes, further exciting the rage that was germinating in the hot, humid darkness of my heaving chest. I had had to force myself to flee the scene I had witnessed in the manager's office for fear of giving in to my desires.

A low growl escaped my throat.

How I longed to feel a rope slither around his throat!

I fingered the lasso in my pocket without thinking, taking a small measure of comfort from one of my few physical companions. My punjab was a reminder of a past I wished I could forget, but an old friend too.

It was a grisly reminder of just how much a monster I was.

The years I spent under the shah, back when Azadeh had still needed me, those were some of my darkest hours. The sheer number of human lives that had ended at my hands weighed down on my soul even more heavily than my harsh excuse for a face.

They still haunted my dreams, each and every one of them. Their eyes gleamed back at me from the dim crevices of my mind. Though I had long ago become used to their presence, I knew I would never be free of their clutches.

What I had done, the man I had been in Mazenderan would never leave me. The part of me that always watched his back, that looked at every shadow with suspicion. The nagging voice that had been my only friend in the palaces of India and Persia had become my tormentor in France, always whispering in my ear to be on guard. To protect myself from everything and everyone. And to be perfectly honest, I found that I agreed with it more and more often.

Perhaps that was the reason I had not discarded the harmless looking little instrument of death.

Indeed, being with out it now would have been much akin to amputating my own arm. In truth, I kept it for another reason as well. I relished in the memories of my history. I had so few tokens of all the torturous twenty seven years of my life. So little was left over from the ages of agony that I cherished the few that I still had.

There were so few things that I owned, so little that was mine.

Perhaps that was why the memories and urges of Persia still clung so close to the surface of my heart.

In the mirror room of Mazenderan, I had known what it was to truly possess something. To own it exclusively, completely. I had owned the whole world. The power was intoxicating. It was the sweetest, most tempting fruit I had ever been offered.

And once I'd had my first mouthwatering bite, I couldn't stop.

The dargoa had once called it blood lust.

The hot, impulsive way that I had stopped caring about right and wrong had been seductive. In some twisted way, it had filled the gapping hole left in my heart by the absence of a woman. Standing in the execution room, holding the windpipe of my victim in my hands, I knew them. That complete understanding, full comprehension of the essence of the prisoner's soul was oddly similar to what I imagined it would be like to know a woman. I had read widely on the subjects of love in the Shah's vast libraries, desiring to be well versed should I ever ensnare an unsuspecting bride.

I was a fool for ever entertaining even the slightest hope of a woman coming willingly into my embrace. God had far too heartless a sense of humor too ever allow that. He had the good grace to grant me the voice to seduce a woman and the mind to understand how to love her, but a visage that had wiped away any expectation of that love ever being reciprocated.

No matter how I tried, I would never be able to do anything more than beat my frustrated head against the wall of my creator's doing.

But in killing, I had found the ultimate expression of defiance against the God who had so cruelly cursed my miserable reality.

It had felt so right. I had been strong, for the first time in my life. And for the first time, I was the one who laughed at another's pain, the one with the power to do what I wished with the precious, fragile blossom of another human life.

I had held the keys to the gates of life and death.

I had been God.

Now I was reduced to a ghost who haunted damp basements and the wild imaginations of little girls.

My mind wandered to the silly ideas of the young mademoiselle Giry. The ballet rat had only caught one glimpse of me and decided that I was some demonic shade straight out of the mouth of Hades.

I chuckled quietly at the irony of the idea. She had never seen what lay behind my ebony mask, but her description of me had been frighteningly accurate. My body belonged to something dead for a hundred years.

Despite the mildly morbid nature of my reflections, I felt my mood lift ever so slightly.

Besides taking my mind off of my murderous impulses, the thought of the little dancer herself was one of the few bright spots in this dreary Parisian dungeon. I often longed to feel the warm sun of the desert on my face again, heating my chilled flesh, but I had learned in the past two years to substitute other joys for the climate of my old home.

The Opera had proved to be a nearly ideal dwelling, despite its temperatures. I was constantly surrounded by music, glorious music.

The cast and crew of the Populaire had proved to be an unexpected bonus.

Having escaped Persia, I found that I had grown accustomed to the presence of people in the royal court while I was there. Few were comfortable in my presence, and no one could have been said to have enjoyed my company, but at least they were there. I could hear their voices and smell their warm blooded bodies.

Though I hated to admit it, I had found that I needed the occasional companionship that only other people could give me. I needed to sense that I was just a little less alone, even if the people here didn't know that I was near them.

I slowly discovered a simple kind of pleasure in simply observing the daily lives of real people, people who lived in the world of the light. I felt mildly attached to them, learning who they were. Their hopes, fears, desires. I saw them laugh, cry, sing, dance, love, and hope. I knew each person in the building, most likely better than they knew themselves. Of course, some of them were more interesting than others.

Especially the ballet corps.

At first, I had hungered to hold them, caress them. They were so heart breakingly beautiful. I spent months of ravenous days and longing nights desiring to lovingly embrace one of them as she slept.

It was an amazing dream, but reality glared me starkly in the face.

I knew better than to hold out hope again for love in my twisted, monstrous life.

So I forced my pinings to lay dormant, adopting a more fatherly affection for the ballet rats. I even found my own way of 'playing' with them, just as any father would.

A grin lazily curled on my pale lips.

Slowing in my mad rush through the Opera House's winding tunnels, I decided to change course.

Right now I could use a little amusement.


	19. XIX

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	20. XX

This is a filler chapter, as the original chapter that was here before has been combined with other chapters over the course of second draft editing. These filler chapters are only up so that my chapter count does not go down, because when that happens faithful reviewers are unable to review because the website thinks that they have reviewed that chapter already.

Please accept my humble appologies for the inconveniance and continue to read and review.

Warm regards,  
CMG


	21. From My Perch in Box Five

**

* * *

Chapter Nine: From My Perch in Box Five

* * *

**

**Leah**

Every part of me screamed to stop moving.

I ignored my tired limbs and continued down the hallway with my sketch pad in tow. Roving the mezzanine level, my body and I were both impatient to find the box seat I had in mind. I scanned the doors as I passed them, looking for the right number.

There!

I studied the ornately stylized numeral five painted in gold on the dark lacquer of the door.

The hinges pushed open easily with a soft swish.

"Well, at least there's one door in this place that's oiled properly!" I thought to myself.

That was a stark contrast to most of the innumerable doors in the vast opera house. Even after nearly a month of living in the dormitories of the Garnier, there were still many unexplored avenues within its vast walls that I had never seen. My days were generally spent in only a few specific regions of the house, but I had begun to investigate when I had time. Yet as a student of the conservatory, time was a commodity that I found myself lacking, as I began to settle into the comfortable routine of a ballerina.

My mornings continued to be spent on the roof with Beth and the pale light of early sunrises. My time with her was allowing me to let down so many of my defenses in a way I had never dreamed possible. For the first time in my life, I had found someone I could count on, someone who would be there when I asked. I did not need to impress her, or win her over by adapting to her habits. I could simply enjoy her company, as she seemed to enjoy mine.

She was patient, gentle even, with the sharp, jagged pieces of my heart that I just couldn't seem to rid myself of. We read together and even sang occasionally. Neither of us possessed an exceptional amount of vocal talent, but we were not terrible either. She had even been giving me advice about the difficulties I faced each day in class and in practice, and had worked with me on my routines.

Those extra lessons were a true 'God send', as Beth so often liked to put it, for warm ups and classes came as soon as we could gobbled down our breakfasts.

Formal classes began at seven o'clock every morning without fail. I had been placed in a less advanced class than many of the other girls my age, and longed for a friendly face with which to share my struggles. Mme Carvarlo was the good humored woman who usually taught our classes, and I slowly grew familiar with several of the other instructors of the Conservatoire de Ballet. But whomever the lessons were supervised by, they were always demanding and difficult, leaving us physically and mentally exhausted by our noon break.

The afternoons were a short, but appreciated pause in our hectic days. While most of the girls went shopping or practiced, I spent a great deal of my time in the attic with my paints and brushes. It had taken me several weeks to complete the painting of Beth on the roof to my mild satisfaction, but then again I was rarely happy with anything I managed to produce.

Even so, I began to grow sick of correcting its thousands of flaws, and set it aside in favor of another project.

I missed being home quite badly some days, and what I had originally intended to be an oil landscape had quickly transformed into a portrait of the women in my family: My great great grandmother, my great grandmother, my Abuela, Maman and I. The deceased women were painted from my memories of the portraits that hung in my grandparents' home. My favorite detail was one of my own invention. Strangely, it made me feel closer to them, as though I was part of something larger than myself, for I painted each of the women wearing a tiny lead key about her neck.

When Little Meg inquired after the subject matter, I often jokingly informed her that it would serve as a much needed reminder of all the strong, suborn women who had gone before me in order to deal with her tom foolery.

As I had promised in return for her help in finding a place to paint, I had begun to teach her what I knew. She often spent hours with me in the warm, sun filled rotunda attic. While seven years of lessons from a private painting instructor had failed to impregnate my clumsy fingers with any true degree of talent for the subject, I was still able to pass on the basic ideas of perspective, contrast, mediums, and countless other such things with some small measure of success.

Not knowing what else to do to begin, I had started her makeshift education with some of the earlier lessons that my instructor had first given me. She had progressed quickly, as eager to learn to paint as I was to learn during classes, and she had already completed several passable attempts at still life compositions.

Now, after a few day's search in the dustier regions of the property department, we had located an acceptable old mirror and little Meg had begun her first self portrait. True, she was not the next Da Vinci, but there was definitely an aptitude in her brush strokes. The light hearted image was done in well chosen, vibrant colors, and she had begun to grasp the idea of contrasting shadows and highlights. Watching her paint stirred up unfamiliar emotions of what I thought might be pride. It was a cozy feeling, almost a motherly sense of pleasure at seeing her talent flourish.

If only my dancing were to flourish in such a manner!

My quiet hours were ended every day at five in the afternoon by a light dinner in the dinning hall and three hours of rehearsal for the latest upcoming production. Performance was an interregnal part of an education at Academie National de Musique, and every student was involved in the production to some degree or another, though a great most singers and dancers were merely cast in the chorus or as understudies and almost all of the instrumentalists were treated the same. This practice, though shorter than our morning classes, was far more abrasive to my nerves, for while in rehearsal I had to learn alongside all of the other girls.

I was supremely happy to dance in the company of my new found friends, but there were mocking eyes in the crowd of my fellow ballerinas as well. I was far from the most talented, ranking in truth more closely with girls three and four years my junior who still slept with rag dolls at night. As Maitre de Corps, Mme. Giry often oversaw our evening practices, and I was often one of the unlucky individuals that she found fault with and upbraided in front of every one.

Though my first reaction to this harsh treatment was barely leashed fury, I soon was forced to see that the reprimands were not undeserved. I was infinitely perturbed by the fact that all my hard work, all my fervor for this art form should not be conveyed in every step.

"If only they could see me when no one was watching!" I often muttered inwardly. "Then they would understand."

On the afternoons and days of recess when no one used one of the smaller practice rooms, I often abandoned the pleasant hobby of my canvases and compositions for my real passion.

With warm blocks of sunlight streaming from the third story windows and carpeting the wooden planks of the floor, I would stretch my tense limbs and begin to fly free. As I bound my toes with lamb's wool and tied the dingy lilac ribbons of my favorite pointe shoes, I could feel familiar happiness begin to race through my veins like molten silver.

This was the one pursuit in my life that was my own. It had not been born out of a desire to please in trade for love, for in truth it was the one thing that separated me from those I loved most dearly. This was the one part of my life that I could proudly plant a flag on and claim as mine.

Since the first time I saw a ballerina –in this very opera house- at the age of five, I had been enchanted and captivated by the unspoken language that she whispered to me with every elegant curve of her performance, a language more powerful than the dry letters on a page could ever hope to be. I had begged incessantly before my family had employed my ballet instructor, but every difficulty that my dancing caused me was insignificant when compared to what it gave me in return.

By myself, I could fling every caution to the wind and dance with my heart laid bare. It was only as I moved to an unheard melody in my head that I truly felt alive, as though a veil that separated me from reality was lifted with every hushed whisper of my slippers across the old wood floor. As my lungs filled to the bursting and my heart beat a mad tempo inside my chest, lightning coursed through me and the world seemed brighter. I could forget my problems, loose my inhibitions, and let go of everything that caused me pain as I spun about in silence, drunk with the sheer elation of being human.

Yet despite the overwhelming force of my passion when I was alone, I could not seem to manage to touch that plane of existence when in the midst of a group. A tiny part of me was terrified to let anyone see the whole truth of who I was, petrified that someone might see the sheer honesty that shone from every pore of my slick skin when I let go of my fears. And thus my fever, my passion was hidden from the world, causing me frustration as I hobbled my way through the trials of being a second rate dancer.

True, I was more than eager for my first appearance on stage, but it was not the dream of an applauding audience that invoked such fierce joy inside my heart, but rather the dream of dancing well and expressing all of myself with my movement and my body.

At length, I had to admit with weary resignation that even Beth's tutelage could only do so much. While I knew I wasn't as hopeless as I had believed during my first training session, I also knew I wasn't the prima ballerina I had once dreamed of becoming. I had decided to be satisfied with just doing the best I could.

When practice ended at eight thirty, the hours before curfew were usually rather quiet.

At least in our dormitory.

Many of the other cliques in the corps got together at night and gossiped. Others tried to elude Madame Giry's watchful eye long enough to slip out with their beaus. Excursions with the opposite sex were forbidden during the week, but that didn't hinder anyone from finding creative escape plans when an attractive subscriber came along.

Though the idea of going out to a party was awfully alluring, most of my heart was very glad for my sober friends. Especially after seeing so many violent hangover reactions from the other dancers.

Beth, Amanda, Alana, Meg, and three or four other girls made up our small set. I was slowly learning how to be near to the people that mattered in my life without scheming to win their friendship. The girls were becoming more and more important to me with each passing day. I was discovering that, for the first time in what seemed like ages, there was something greater than my own existence in the world. That someone else's feelings and opinions could matter more than my own, and that I did not need to adapt myself to their interests to gain their affection.

Our nights, unlike many other's around us, were generally spent reading aloud or soaking in warm baths after particularly grueling sessions. I soaked in more than water when I was near them, soaking up their warm kindness as well during our nightly communions. Still, we were dancers in training, and it seemed that sleep could never come soon enough for any of us at the end of an exhausting day.

Or stay long enough, for that matter. It generally took me a full half an hour to become conscious after waking up, even in the brisk morning air on the roof.

I never had been much of a morning person.

With such demanding days and nights, I had never had a reason to come back to the main auditorium after my first night. I had always been too busy. But with opening night less than a week away, Madame had finally allowed the troupe into the hallowed hall itself for dress rehearsals. This Saturday would be the start of a two week production of Gluck's Orpheus et Euridice.

And to my surprise and supreme delight, I would be performing in this production. Just thinking about it brought a tiny smile to my face.

Best of all, Maman had written to tell me that everyone would be there to see my début on stage.

Faint singing from the chorus now wafted up from that same stage. The corps de ballet had been released to their dormitories nearly an hour ago, after an unusually difficult and draining rehearsal, and the only people besides myself who were present in the theater proper were those required to be there. During the past few nights of intensive rehearsals, my new little family had been too exhausted to do anything more than flop into bed like very dead fish.

I, on the other hand, always felt more alive after a long run through. Tired, sore even, but full of a restless itch that refused to allow me sleep. I leaned back and let the music soak into my tired bones. To stave off my sleeplessness, I had spent several evenings sketching the musical rehearsals.

Drawing began to grow a bit dull after a time, for the only people left on stage were a bunch of ninny witted chorus girls that looked ready to fall asleep where they stood.

The scene could not be helped, I supposed, but at least I had found the best seat in the house.

The view was perfect from my perch in box five.

* * *

**Eric**

The view was perfect from my perch in box five.

Behind the intricate carving of box five's half nude protector, I had the best seat in the house.

And tonight I had been pleasantly surprised by the quality of the music. My mind still occasionally wandered back to the disappointing events of the afternoon, but my spirits were boosted by the soothing rendition of the aria of the blessed spirit from the second scene of act two.

Resting my head back on my opulent head cushion, I closed my eyes and let the music envelope my entire being.

_♪…le riant séjour  
De la felicité.  
Nul objet ici n'enflamme l'âme,  
Une douce ivresse laisse  
Un calme heureux dans tousles sens;  
Et la sombre tristesse cesse…♫_

How I longed to find my place in those restful fields!

My reverie was rudely interrupted by the soft swish of the box door.

I immediately sat straight up and moderated my breathing. I couldn't quite see who it was. They were simply STANDING there!

Finally, the idiot found the time to grace me with his presence.

Or hers…

A slender ballerina entered, carrying a sketchbook under her arm and a small box of charcoal.

She was oddly familiar, and yet to my irritation, I couldn't place her.

Who was this girl who dared to intrude on MY BOX?

My box?

I completely disregarded the child as I began to analyze my thoughts.

Where had that come from? I didn't own anything anymore, not even my lodging or the clothing that covered me. I was a thief, a parasite of the opera. What right did I have to anything in it?

And yet, I wondered slowly … Why shouldn't it be mine?

Those idiot managers didn't know what a glorious creature they had in their power. I could make it legendary. I could make good my debts to its walls and then some.

I could have this box if I wanted!

Why shouldn't it be mine?

Why shouldn't this whole damn opera be mine?

The novelty of the scheme was luring me in like a fish to a shining hook.

My original intent of coming to the auditorium flitted away from my conscious mind. I had planed to play a trick or two with the lighting or something of that sort. But any fatherly desires to play with my 'children' had long ago evaporated in light of this new idea.

"Why shouldn't this whole damn opera be mine?" I silently repeated to myself.

And I could find no reason to deny my urge.

I could only fantasize about how sublime it would feel to wield real power again, even if I were to do so from a pit in the moldy cellar. I could own an entire theater. I could rule the meeting place of the Parisian elite.

It would be wonderful to dominate anything again, especially something as grand and influential as the Garnier.

Besides, I could run this opera far better than those two bunglers sitting in the managers' office. To be blunt, neither Debbine nor Poligany could carry a tune in a bucket, much less make critical decisions demanding musical expertise.

I decided then and there to take it upon myself to 'advise' those naive fools.

I tilted the tips of my outstretched fingers together and hunched forward in my seat subconsciously, pondering advantages and disadvantages of several plans that were already coming to life in my mind. I had taken that stooped position when deep in thought since childhood, even though it had infuriated my mother to no end. She had believed it to be bad posture, and had whipped me soundly whenever she caught me indulging in the forbidden pastime.

My mother…

It had been over twenty years since I had escaped the twisted asylum that was my father's house, and I still was unable to picture her delicate face without emotions of panic, fear, desperation, and love coating my stomach and slithering down to rot in my guts like spoiled milk.

Even a fleeting thought of the woman nearly caused me physical pain. The memories of betrayal and rejection reared their ugly heads in my mind, taunting and mercilessly provoking me to violence. Years ago, I had soothed away this pain with the empowering drug of control and domination as I killed and tortured. I had played the part of God and the sense of power that it had afforded me had temporarily numbed my more pressing emotions. During my time in Azadeh's court, I had simply indulged in killing to rid myself of this agony within, but now that my path had taken a different course I could no longer hide from my pain behind a shield of blood.

The only other focus for my attentions besides my agonizing memories was a small herd of half sleeping chorus girls. With three nights left until the season premier of Orpheus et Euridice, chorus rehearsals had dragged on even longer than those of the corps, leaving its members dead on their feet for hours after the last ballet rat had crept off to her bed.

Oh, how I longed to bring swift death to someone, to calm the tormented, ceaseless throbbing in my skull!

Anyone would do. I wanted, no, I _needed_ to feel in control of something. If I could not control the agony in my mind, perhaps the familiar sensation of holding a fragile neck in my grip would sooth away my memories.

The punjab nearly itched in my pocket beside my trembling fingers.

If only I could ensnare one of those lovely girls! I would teach them not to taunt me in my dark shadows with their beautiful bodies. I would make them pay for such irreverence! I could do what I wanted with them.

After all, I reasoned, if the opera was mine, then they were mine as well!

I ached to fling myself from my carefully concealed recess amid the private boxes. To explode onto stage and snatch up a victim. From there, the possibilities were endless.

Thousands of images flooded my mind's eye as I imagined what I might do with such a captive. All the appealing ways I could slowly cause the air to seep from her lungs. I thirsted to feel the sensation of my fingers on the dove soft skin of her throat.

As my need for blood slowly faded with the antidote of my homicidal fantasies, another longing gradually replaced its intensity. The caresses of my murderous desires swiftly became those of fleshly desire.

To stroke my imagined lover's neck with excruciating tenderness. To brush my fingertips against her body lightly in places she had never dreamed of being touched. My chest began to constrict tightly, signaling the beginning of a lonely road I had walked so many times before.

Until an unexpected sigh startled me from the seductive trance.

How had she gotten so close?

* * *

**Leah**

The scratching of my charcoal had begun its own harmony with the hushed music of Orpheus's journey into Hades until a sudden absence of music startled me.

A sparse mop of gray hair waved about wildly in the orchestra pit. Obviously Monsieur Reyer had found fault with the harp soloist again.

Honestly, that was the third time in a row!

I couldn't blame him for his perfectionism. That attention to detail was the reason that he was the conductor. Still, it was starting to wear on me. His droning, nasal tone was not pleasant under the best of circumstances. And at the moment I was feeling a bit drowsy, not improving his resonant qualities.

My attempts to end my sleeplessness were finally beginning to come to fruit, I realized.

But I was too comfortable presently to move out of the warm, red velvet nest of the well padded corner chair. I had retrieved my favorite throw from its hiding place under said chair, where I had concealed it the evening before. Now the slightly itchy wool lay on my lap, shrouding my legs. I set down my sketch pad and charcoal, being careful not to smudge my quick, gestural drawings.

"I won't go to sleep." I promised myself. "I just want to rest my eyes while I think."

I pulled the knitted blanket up around my shoulders, leaning against the sensuous carving that protruded from the wall. Resting my head against her golden thigh, I shrugged my cover into a tighter embrace. The deep folds of her tunic were shadowy and dim, illuminated only by the light of the stage. In an odd way, I was reminded of my grandmother's caring arms, even though nothing could be more different from the cold statue under my cheek.

"Honestly Leah!" I chided myself with an air of mock sternness, "That's rather pathetic. It's a statue for goodness sakes."

In that moment of decidedly strange humor, I realized for the first time just how lonely I really was.

I missed them.

I had thought that separating from my family would be easier if I simply forgot about them for the first few weeks. Now I saw in hindsight that the painful days and nights that I had spent repressing their faces had only intensified my hurt.

Even before the moist tears began to well up in my eyes, I ruthlessly quelled them. Mama's words to me had become a bit of a mantra in my moments of emptiness. Now they came nearly unbidden, echoing inside my head and chilling the hot twinges in the back of my throat.

_"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."_

I stuffed all the anxiety into a far corner of my consciousness. I was too strong to give in to tears. My fists clenched in my lap without thought, strengthening my resolve to stand firm.

The voices of hell's harpies and the strong strains of orchestral music radiating from stage began to fade from the front of my mind as I eagerly thought about Saturday.

I longed to see my family and now I understood, for the first time, just how much I had given up to be here. Even at the beginning of my incredible dream of coming here to dance, I had known that it would come with a price. It seemed that fate would not allow me to exchange my destiny for a different one without some sacrifice on my part.

It was rather unusual for a young woman of my station to enroll in the National Academy to begin with. True, the corps was not the low life brothel that rumor sometimes named it. In fact, most of its members were from wealthy families, even housing a few daughters of the lesser ranking aristocracy. The dormitories housed more than a few chaperones, employed by doting parents to care for their pampered daughters as they climbed the ladder of stardom.

Yet that is not to say that opera patrons did not make frequent excursions to the backstage. On any given night, you could easily discover two or three intimate couples tucked into secluded alcoves and sheltered back doors, strategically positioned to avoid both overprotective chaperones and the formidable Madame Giry.

But whatever the reality of the average ballerina's romantic life, whatever the social status of my companions, my entrance into the corps had crossed a barrier that I could not erase. My reputation as a woman of good standings had been shattered with the first step I had taken inside the grand foyer.

This was the truth as far as Edmond Beecher was concerned at least.

Had my mother been engaged to marry nearly any other man, I would not have found myself almost disowned by my family. But Lord Beecher was not just any step-father to be. 'A stuffy English prude', my Nana had once called him under her breath, and I was eager to agree with her point of view.

From the beginning of their courtship, he had been reluctant to adopt my brother and I when he married my mother, appalled that she had conceived bastards outside of wedlock. He had actually had the gall to use that word aloud while we were present! After weeks of coaxing on my mother's part (for the poor fool was really quite besotted with her, if not with her children or her past) he had been on the verge of agreeing. That was before he learned of my upcoming theatrical pursuits.

Aparently, the British have prudish views on many things.

Dancing, for example.

When he learned of my intentions, he had staunchly refused any further mention of adopting me as an heir. He had told me that it was sinful to prance and caterwall about on stage. Sinful! And that he would never allow his good name to be connected to such humiliation.

I knew in my heart that Mama would not have accepted his proposal had it not been for his political and familial connections, and the fact that she was rather enamoured with him for some odd reason. House Beecher was powerful and influential, not only in its native England, but abroad as well. Their sway was even firm in España, and when he married my mother he would use his social clout to return my Abuelos to their rightful position in the courts of Madrid.

I also knew that my family would not have agreed to his vile arrangements if I had not urged them to do so. I was not about to ask them to sacrifice their hopeful futures for my dream. Maman cared for him deeply, and I could not deny my Abelos their chance to have a position in court again, nor could I ask Henry to give up all of his ambitions that were tied to his noble birth.

Henry had a promising future. He had joined the navy only last year, on his seventeenth birthday. Already, he was rumored to be in line for a promotion in the ranks. And the honor of his position was not the only thing that shone brightly in his life. I once heard it said that it's hard to resist a man in uniform, and it seemed that my big brother was no exception, for he was slowly courting a high born woman named Leotyne.

I could not ask him to risk his good name along with mine if it meant that he would loose all that was so important to him.

The fact that he was only my half brother never once crossed my mind. It had never mattered to me who our fathers were. Especially mine, as I had never met the man. Henry was my brother, without any conditions attached to the title.

So my choice had been clear.

If I followed my dream, my family would be a much smaller part of my life, and I would no longer be able to claim any inheritance from my mother. And I had accepted that fact. It had not been easy, but I knew that it would be what was best for us all.

And besides, I knew in my heart that even though my family would never relate to me as they once had, they would never abandon me. They would never leave me on my own, and would remain in Paris to be near me.

Little proofs of their unremitting love came flooding into my mind. The letters grandfather had written me. Abuela's careful packing and preparations for my transition. Henry's occasional visits, whenever he could avoid his naval training. Mama had even sent me a box of chocolates, my favorite treat.

I also knew that I would never be unsupported, despite the loss of the estates that would have been my inheritance. My Abuelos had set up a small account with their banker on my behalf. Discreetly, of course. It would be obtuse for them to have supported me publicly, for it would have badly endangered Henry's chances of being adopted. Regardless, the small fund would be sufficient to sustain me for many years. If I could learn to be frugal, that was.

Most dear to my heart, they would be here to see me when I took stage for the first time. Of course, I was in the last row of the largest dance scene, but I would be on stage. That was all that mattered for now.

Still, my joy at their presence at the premier only highlighted the fact that they were so often absent from my life. A storm of emotions twisted inside me. I just wanted to stop thinking about anything for a little while.

Sinking deeper into the chair, I snuggled into the cozy warmth of the blanket and returned my attention to the last half hour of the chorus rehearsal. I sighed softly, wishing that life could have been different.

Stretching sleepily, I closed my eyes in contentment and weariness.

Unbenounced to me, someone was drawing close to my resting place as I curled up nearer to my guardian statue.

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

_♪My cat has spent the entirety of this chapter's writing attempting to get me to pet it. In the process, he has insisted on sitting on my keyboard. If there are errors in this chapter, blame it on him!_

_♫Just to be clear, the mezzanine is actually the first floor of balcony seats. The ground floor is called the orchestra level. So Leah was on the right floor of the building, she didn't magically transport herself. :D_

_♪Orpheus and Eurydice is a really beautiful opera. If you're into opera, you ought to check out the libretto!  
_  
The translation of the song (roughly):

Lovely fields so gentle and peaceful  
Where with joy is filled the air,  
Friendly domain of blessed spirits,  
Free of care.  
Though the world beyond be gray and tearful,  
Here our bond is gay and cheerful  
In timeless bliss the days go by  
While all sadness turns to gladness  
And to laughter every sigh.


	22. Interruptions

**Warning! This chapter is the result of a week of pre writing and about four or five days of actual fingers to keyboard, due to it being the first rather important chapter in the way of plot. Hence the delay. Hopefully the time spent on it will cause it to be better written than some of my other chapters. :D**

**Woot! I've just eaten a third of a bucket of cookies and cream ice cream. I had to put the cats in the bathroom so they would stop attacking me. **

**Any who, I hope that all this sugar improves the quality of my writing!

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**Chapter Twenty Two: Interruptions

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**Eric**

The young woman had laid her head to rest only inches from my aching fingers.

How had she gotten so close?

Did I really care?

The deep brown of her soft hair blushed faintly in the dim lights of the stage. The gentle rippling of the soft tresses mimicked the ocean's waves.

I yearned to permit my hands to swim quietly in that toffee surf.

It would be so easy. She would never even know. There was a small opening in the dark recesses of the statues draped clothing. My lean wrist could slip through it with room to spare. Merely considering such an action triggered my body's reflexes. My abdomen clenched violently, and a fire steadily grew behind my eyes, threatening to set my sockets ablaze.

But how could I subject something so unsullied to my revolting touch?

She even smelled innocent, faintly hinting at the fragrance of lilacs. Her scent only served to fuel my need.

"She is in _your_ Opera House. You can do what ever you want." A small, sly voice whispered to me.

"_She is yours_."

I could no longer contain myself.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I reached an imploring hand towards her. The heat in my skull pulsated, displaying all the erotic fantasies I had ever dared to dream of.

As I touched her, she would sigh quietly in pleasure. Then she would gently stir at my caress, wondering with delight as I emerged from the shadows. I would silently beckon her to draw near to me, and she would willingly…

A brusque bang of the box door interrupted our invented interlude, halting my fingers just centimeters from her sweet mane. She groggily lifted her head, just barely missing the brush of my glove.

Who would DARE?

This audacious intruder would pay a high price for ruining my plans. The clammy warmth in my stomach promptly rose to the cavern of my chest, fueling my anger.

Until I recognized the figure in the door.

At any other time I would have found the sight highly amusing. Her disheveled state was a definite first in my days at the Populaire. She prided herself on her well kempt appearance, taking silent strength in her impassable façade of dignity.

Now I could only bite my lip and restrain my lunging anger on a chokehold leash. Only her name saved her from my fury.

Antoinette Giry darted in to gather my young guest with a few muted words of mild reproach for breaking curfew.

Her hair was a tangle, pulled into a hasty braid of bronze and a peppering of gray. Her high necked woolen shift was primly covered by a serviceable robe. No wonder she was in her night things, I thought as I glanced at my pocket watch. It was nearly one in the morning.

"Child, why aren't you in bed with the rest of the girls?"

She sleepily blinked, trying to focus on the stern woman next to her.

"Oh, Madame!" She exclaimed guiltily. "I couldn't sleep, so I was listening to the rehe…"

"Never mind that now. Come with me to the dormitories. I need you to do something." Antoinette replied in an unusually supplicational tone that was wrought with tension and weariness.

So she was a dancer then. That sounded right, but I still couldn't put a name to her shadowy face.

Absorbed by the mystery of her retreating form, I slipped into the narrow passage that would take me near to the dormitories.

While stalking my unsuspicious prey, I silently thanked the man who had made these tunnels possible. Not only had he given me the means to travel unseen in my domain, he had also saved me from making a kill tonight.

Most of my thoughts, however, were focused on the back of my quarry. It seemed that ages passed during their journey to the dormitories.

At last, Antoinette stopped outside one of the bedroom doors, ushering the girl inside.

Something didn't seem quite right. I stood stock still, trying to excavate the memory that eluded me from the rubble of my mind. Something about that door…

Just then, it came to me!

I knew who she was. She was the newest dancer in the alternate row. I had watched her audition and she had been there that night in the kitchen. I vaguely remembered that she was rooming with Giry's daughters.

But that wasn't the right door. Why would…

I was jolted to my senses by the click of the door knob as it shut behind them.

I quickly stole down another corridor in order to discover the accursed woman's reason for interrupting our brief tryst. I arrived just in time to see said woman closing the creaking door behind her as she left the room.

"Alone at last!" I thought to myself with glee. "Surely she will fall asleep again soon."

Positioning myself near to the peep hole in the molding on the wall, I waited with bated breath for my secretive little ballerina to climb into bed.

But she didn't.

She simply sat there on top of her duvet, doing nothing.

After several minutes of frustration, I shifted my body for a better view, changing the angle of my head. Instead of the one girl I had been expecting, I found two.

As my eyes adjusted to focus on their faces, I inwardly cursed her unexpected companion. If only Leah had been alone! I would have had a perfect opportunity to…

My thoughts instantaneously became mute as I studied the child next to her on the bed.

Now I wished that Leah was the one absent from the room, though for entirely different reasons.

* * *

As the bedraggled woman shut the door behind her, she whispered a hushed prayer to the heavens.

"Lord, help them both. I can only do so much for them." She sighed, as a familiar emotion choked her throat. "I can only hope that they will be less lonely now. I know how deeply that hurts."

"Please Father, they need you." Her voice wavered with emotion as a small tear made its journey down her cheek.

Steeling herself, she turned down another hallway in search of a bath to wake her sluggish body and calm her anxious mind.

* * *

**Leah**

My sleepy bearings were gone in a twinkling once Madame's puzzling request had snagged the threads of my curiosity.

As we made the winding trek to the dormitory hall, I half expected her to lecture me on curfew or inform me that I had earned myself extra hours of exercise. Instead, she mutely led me to the unused room next to ours. My interest spiked, she refrained from opening the door. Turning to me, she spoke in no more than a whisper.

"Child," she began, "I have decided to place you in a new room."

A tide of questions roared inside my skull. Why? Have I done something wrong? Have I displeased her? Are Beth and Meg sick of…

They were interrupted and cut short as my instructor continued.

"A new student has been accepted to the academy tonight, and I wish for you to room with the girl."

Still mildly perturbed by my estrangement from my friends, I began to wonder just who this girl was. She must have been important to be admitted in the middle of the night. But what did that have to do with me?

"As you know, normally the entrance procedures take several days. This, however, was an unusual, and rather difficult, circumstance."

I narrowed my eyes and raised my eyebrows, trying to understand what she was telling me.

"She has just been through a very difficult loss, and I have high hopes that you will be able to comfort her and make her feel at home."

Comfort her? Make her feel at home? I had no idea how to even begin! I had never done anything like this before. Why had she chosen me? And what circumstances would push her to be so careful with this girl?

"What kind of lo…" I began without thinking.

Madame turned sharply to me, and spoke in a tone that was even more quiet.

"Her father died." She muttered. "She is an orphan now. Completely alone. She needs a shoulder to cry on."

"_Oh God!"_ I half prayed. _"What am I supposed to do? I don't even have a father. How could I possibly know what to say?"_

I desperately searched for some way to avoid Madame's plan, but she had already cracked open the door.

* * *

_**Author's notes: **Cliffy! Muhaha! Ants in your pants!_

**It has been a little while since I've advertised about this, so I thought I'd give it another shot. I am in need of a beta. (Kind of obvious, no?) If you are willing to submit to said torture, PLEASE contact me! I will send you an out line of where I am planning to go with this story, and we can go from there.**

_Well, it's a happy day! Eric and Leah finally get out of the blasted box! I'm sorry they've been there so long, but hey, you can't complain. You are going to get to meet a certain weepy little girl! (She puts words into your non existent collective mouths)_

_Also, last chapter, I wrote a line saying that Leah could hear 'hell's harpies' singing. In that scene of Orpheus et Euridice, there are people acting and singing the roles of hell's harpies. I didn't mean to imply that the chorus sounded bad or something, I was talking about actual parts that were being sung. Hope that clears it up for you!

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**Responses**:

**Allegratree**: Well, they're out!

I've decided that I am going to hold off on the major editing until I am done with the first draft, but yeah, those chapters will probably end up being one long chapter. By the way, I think it's great that you can joke about having ADD. I can definitely understand. I live with an entire house full of people with ADD. Always keeps life interesting if nothing else:D

Thank you for saying it's historically accurate! (Well, mostly) That is one of my pet peeves also. As for Eric's name, firstly, I have a god complex. I did it because I can. :D More importantly, I did it to tie into part of the plot. In short, you will have to keep guessing about that one until the final chapters, if not the epilogue itself. Sorry, but hey, its suspense. AND, an incentive to keep reading I might add!

As to procuring floor plans, **YOU ARE A GODDESS!** (I think you are a woman that is. If you are a guy, I am very, VERY sorry!) Thanks for the article you sent me, it was quite helpful. And yes, I am trying to find plans for the entire opera house, but whatever you can get your hands on it VERY much appreciated! I hope you enjoyed your Friday night!

**JPT**: I guess you'll just have to keep wondering if they'll ever meet, now won't you! Sorry, but the anticipation always makes for better reading later on. As to being disowned, it had less to do with pride and love and more to do with the culture of the time. If you read closely, you will see that they are still kind of taking care of her, so it's not a black and white situation.


	23. Empty Fairytales

**Dedicated to my beloved Allegratree, who has volunteered to beta for me!

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**Chapter Twenty Three: Empty Fairytales

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**Leah**

"Child," Mme. murmured gently, "this is your roommate, Leah."

She was uncharacteristically calm and affectionate around the large bed's sole occupant. Had I not been fixated on the girl myself, I might have laughed out loud at how strange it was to see my ballet mistress being so very motherly. She gave the girl an encouraging rub on the back, and then stood up.

And with that, she was gone.

I stood motionless in the middle of the minuscule room, unable to move any part of my body for fear of upsetting the little girl any more than she already was. I could only look at her and sense the awkward tension in the room.

My tongue had melted fast to the roof of my mouth.

She was younger than I, perhaps no older than Meg. But I couldn't be sure. She was so tiny that pinpointing any age was difficult. She looked like the ghosts of my abuelo's fairytale bedtime stories. She was so frail that it seemed she might float away with a puff of breath. . She looked like a wispy cloud slumped over on our dark brown quilt. But it wasn't her otherworldliness that truly captured me. It was her face.

I had never seen anything so sad. Her colorless face seemed to have been drained of life, like the victim of a fairytale vampire. Her untidy hair hung limply at the sides of her face, edging her features in a frame of dark blond. Her tears had long since dried into brittle tracts on her creamy cheeks, drawing my gaze to her shy, down cast lashes.

Only then did I notice her eyes.

The color reminded me of the shallow water in the lake at our summer house in Italy. Set in any other face, her muted cobalt pupils would have seemed cheerful and picturesque. Hers were simply blank, as though she had completely exhausted the well of her emotions. She had nothing left to give. No happiness, no anger, no pain, no sadness. There wasn't even any weariness in them. She seemed so utterly lost, so drained. She gave a minuscule hiccup as another tear dropped off the tip of her nose, joining a puddle in her lap.

I'll never know just why it happened. Maybe Beth's compassionate attitude had finally made an impression on me. Maybe it was the gradual weakening of all my defenses. Perhaps it was because I understood what it was like to feel the absence of a father. The answer could even have been as simple as a surge of hormones. Looking back, I can't be sure.

But something in me finally snapped.

The last wall I had built to protect my heart came crashing down, rousing my legs from their paralyzed condition. With each quiet step closer to the bed, my fears and worries of inadequacy melted away. My heart was solely saturated with compassion for this shivering, friendless little girl. All I could think of was comforting her in her pain.

The bed groaned at the added weight as I shifted myself onto the bed. Any words of reassurance disappeared as she looked up at me with waterlogged eyes. They held no power to console. I could only wrap my arms around her.

She leaned into my shoulder, clutching my chest as though I were the last threshold separating her from oblivion. A fresh shower of tears fell on the pale pink lace of my blouse. Her weeping returned with a vengeance, as though I had given her the strength to release her pain. That small thought of fulfillment at being able to help her was drown out by the torrent of anguish I felt for the child in my arms.

This was the price I would pay for finally learning how to care about someone this deeply.

"Remarkable," I thought distractedly, "that a total stranger would be the person to let me see."

But soon the prospect of any thought was soon dismissed in the face of the sorrowful arms around me. She was a quaking aspen, uprooted and dying. Her whole body began to tremble violently as she was wracked with powerful sobs. Each tremor hit me like a knife in the side, filling me with empathy. I could only do one thing.

I began to cry with her.

I cried for the sorry state of the world, that someone so needed could be so easily taken from it. I cried for a little girl who would never again know what it was to feel her papa's proud smile beaming down on her.

And for the little girl who never had.

Most of all, I cried for the weakness in me that didn't know how to ease her suffering.

We stayed like that for what must have been hours. She clung tightly to my chest like a starfish on a clamshell, and I clutched her quivering form as close as I could. Our weeping ebbed and flowed like the tide as the night wore on, dampening our clothes and heating our clammy skin. Sometimes it was only a whisper, but often it came like a flood. I was surprised that our duet was never interrupted by rudely wakened ballerinas, for the foundling in my lap exorcised her grief like a peal of thunder.

Her keening wail belonged to the banshees of Alana's Irish tales. She howled with every ounce of her pain, like a kitten dying in the rain.

We fell asleep there, both of us empty for reasons of our own.

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**Eric**

I saw them fall asleep in an empty heap.

I had been unable to pull myself away from the sight of that tiny crying girl. The look in her eyes tore into the harden scabs on my soul, divulging the secrets of my past without even a spoken word. Every scar that I had bandaged with the bitterness of my life laid bleeding and raw in the harsh light of another's sorrow. For the first time in nearly twenty years, my face felt the damp strokes of tears. The loneliness of this nameless nymph faintly echoed the hurt in my twisted excuse for a childhood.

I ached to soothe away her pain. To hold her as that Leah chit did now. My previous desires for the little ballerina were all but forgotten in the wake of the friendless heart in her arms. I wanted to save her from her misery. To scale the walls of the tower of her sadness and play the charming prince to her Rapunzel.

I decided that somehow I _would_ ease her heartache.

If only I could figure out how.

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_**Author's notes:**_

_Ok, I'm not sure if hormones had been discovered yet. So sue me._

_Yep, my Christine is not movie based when it comes to looks. I figured blond and blue eyed fit the whole Swedish immigrant idea a little better than the whole massive mop of brown curls thing. Not dissing the movie or the musical mind you, though both had their pros and cons, I always kind of thought of her as a blond. I always felt it made her a little more innocent, angelic, and/or childlike. But hey, whatever floats your boat!_

_Also, I know I ought to apologize for the really descriptive, short chapter when every one tends to tell me to get on with the plot. But I'm not going to! I like this chapter and I felt I needed it, so turnips to you! But don't take it to heart dears, next chapter will probably be another more plot focused affair.

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**Responses:**

**Allegratree: **Regarding the floor plans, your help has been invaluable. If you do have a copy of the stage plan, I would love to see it! Thanks for all your hard work!

As for beta-ing, you are a GODSEND! When I am done with the next chapter, it's all yours! (Sorry, I just couldn't help posting this one :S) Also, as I get the time I will get my outline into comprehendable form and e-mail it to you asap. (She presents thee with table top sized cheesecake and does a frenzied happy dance!)

**JPT**: Your suspicions may just prove correct. Enjoy the wait! Muhaha.


	24. Along Came A Spider

**Sorry for the long wait. I am in my last month of high school. **

**Graduating + Hormones Insanity. **

**In other news, Allegratree is my beta! Everyone who reads this should kiss my fish! (Unfortunately, she is in the middle of a move, so any mistakes this chapter are still 100 my fault.)

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**Chapter Twenty Four: Along Came a Spider

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**Leah**

Orpheus made his case before the minions of hell as I coiled a lock of hair around my finger.

Anxiety writhed inside me, driving me to my old habit of calming myself. Only a few strands of dusky colored down had escaped my severe hair style. Now I fingered them thoughtlessly, twisting them about my unsteady fingers. Hortense would have a fit, I thought absently as I watched the bright colors of the performance from my hushed scrap of floor.

The typically reserved girl had offered to help dress my hair in an unexpected surge affability. She had spent nearly an hour in labor under the hot electric bulbs that illuminated the mirrors of one of the three community dressing rooms.

I still smelled faintly of the cologne and booze that unvaryingly occupied those rooms as surely as girlish gossip. But the twittering of my fellow ballerinas during the last dress rehearsal had been forgotten long ago.

Now the air of the backstage was pervaded by the tang of sweat, nerves, and the unmistakable fragrance of grease paint. It was a thin relief to my pride that the other young women around me seemed to be faring no better.

Even 'La' Sorelli, as she had begun to title herself, was showing signs of weariness. She and several others leaned back against a dusty set piece that the stagehands had failed to remove in time for opening night.

But they were not the only ones to take refuge there.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a sharp jump from the great one herself. Her abrupt expression was beyond any nominal value I could name as she barely suppressed a squeal of terror.

Until Lisset removed the tiny spider from her flailing form.

"How easily the mighty have fallen." I mused with a smile. "She's not very graceful when she's thrashing around like a dying insect, now is she?"

But scene one of act two was coming quickly to a close, and I had no time to revel in my private comedy. Now only one ballet segment stood between me and the stage.

Unfortunately, that portion was Sorelli's newest triumph, a short duet with Ingvar. That boy was the waking dream of every woman within a three hundred foot radius.

And to think, my tutor had once said that my trigonometry was hopeless.

I sighed, watching his toned, Finnish legs soar about the stage. He carried himself like the stunning apparition that he was, making an excellent match for the picturesque Sorelli.

"She would have been better cast as a harpy." I groused to myself in bleak jealousy.

My bitterness was cut short by the orchestral cue for my entrance.

Thought instantly fled, and my feet took up the slack. All the extra hours of practice during my sleepless nights had ingrained the routine in my recollection. Now I gave every ounce of my concentration over to the character. I fell into practiced step with the rest of the corps, reveling in the way our movements fit together like puzzle pieces. My insignificance in the grand scheme of the opera, while biting, no longer concerned me. In a breeze of tulle and pale lace, I was a spirit of another world. Gone were the nagging concerns of tired legs and an envious heart. I was exultant and free.

I was bliss in toe shoes.

Fluttering off the stage in a state of ecstasy, I supported my tingling body on a shadowy prop while listening to the next selection. Madame Jocelyne Taillon, the resident lyric soprano, filled the auditorium with the ethereal notes of the aria of the blessed spirit.

* * *

When the last bows had come and gone and I had changed into a less flimsy frock, I began to steer my numb legs towards the safe harbor of our bed room. My course should have been made in open water, as I did not remain behind with the larger number of the ballerinas to 'greet' the Populaire's younger patrons. Beth had told me which corridors to use to avoid unwanted attention. Besides, no self respecting rogue would bother to pursue a chaste ballet rat who fled from the dressing rooms. 

Or so I thought.

Inwardly I cursed myself for not having a better sense of direction. Obviously I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, for an obstruction now hindered my passage through the halls. Actually, several obstructions.

In elegant evening suits.

Privately joking amongst themselves, their faces were contorted by laughter. An air of easy grace hung around them, as if they could do no wrong. And they knew it.

Strangely, I found that their arrogance was almost an attractive quality. I slowed a bit to observe them as they sauntered closer, seeming not to notice my presence.

My girlish heart fluttered anxiously as their faces became clearer in the dimness of the hallway. All three were _quite_ handsome.

Stalking closer, I could feel their eyes on me. The sensation was unnervingly similar to the imaginary presence I had once felt in these halls, yet these gazes held no terror for me.

Until now, I had not understood why so many of the other girls were so eager to flit about with subscribers. But as they looked at me, as _he_ looked at me, I felt a pinprick of understanding. That critical observation caused an upwelling of new emotions. I felt strangely pretty, as though his approval validated my beauty.

I recognized one of them as a regular attendee of my mother's galas. My twittering heart ceased to beat flatly in my chest as I failed to breathe. I had accidentally run into him in the empty hallways of our house one night when the grand hall was full. He had been achingly polite and we had spoken briefly. I had spent several weeks afterwards thinking of him. His lean, lanky form. His rakish coal curls. And only three years my senior at that. My impressions of Rene Bouguereau from last year were still very fresh in my mind.

Would he remember me?

I was equally torn between praying he didn't and wishing he would.

My prayers eventually won out. The boys did indeed take notice of me, but it seemed that Duke Bouguereau was oblivious to ever having made my acquaintance. That little detail didn't prevent the trio from forgoing the formalities

They were so close…

The burly blond on the count's left was the first to speak up.

"Hello beautiful." There was a strange glint in his eyes that automatically sent my defenses back to their heightened state of caution. He deftly slipped my fingertips into his cool, gloved palm and trapped them in a hot breathed kiss before I knew what was happening.

"Do I dare request a name from the lips of the lovely Mademoiselle?" He asked audaciously.

"I'm not sure Monsieur, I suppose you will have to make that choice yourself." I replied cautiously, trying to feel out his intentions.

Well, he was rather handsome… And besides, it couldn't hurt to flirt back just a little. Not every man in the backstage was looking for sex. Just most of them.

He seemed a bit surprised to meet with resistance on my part. And improbably enough, a bit amused.

"If that is the case, I suppose I shall just have to risk my pride and dare indeed." The corners of his eyes were well suited to laugh lines.

Rene and his other companion apparently decided that this was their cue to exit the stage. But not without one pass at me. I felt a spidery clutching at my skirts. I turned to see a smirk on the _dear_ count's face. How dare he… he… grope me!

I never liked him that much anyway.

But my attention was soon refocused on my new acquaintance.

He muttered something less than noble under his breath.

"Please forgive my cousin. He can be a bit of an ass when the occasion presents its self."

I couldn't quell my quiet laugh. Perhaps I might enjoy his company after all. He didn't seem so bad.

"You have a lovely smile Mademoiselle."

My eyes grew round. This was a rapid change. What was he after? I was beginning to get a bit nervous.

That is until I saw an unexpected face coming towards us from the end of the hall.

And he wasn't happy.

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

_Any guesses on our unhappy friend?_

_A lyric soprano is a specific type of singing voice. I know what it is, but I can't figure out how to explain it properly. I appeal to any music teachers/professionals._

_Jocelyne Taillon actually was a French mezzo around 1920 or so. I thought the name was pretty and suited the minor character._

_Woot. I managed to work in some humor! Yey me. I can only hope my dear readers understand my twisted sense of funny. _

_I wanted to show that Leah is inexperienced with boys, but not very naive. Did it come across?

* * *

_

**Responses**

**JPT:** Blonde-ditzy or just blonde:D

I love you for reviewing!

**Allegratree:** I sympathize with the moving thing. No fun at all. For now, I was overly eager to post this chapter. So when you are back on your feet, let me know. You and your stress levels will be in my prayers.


	25. Legacies

**Sorry for the delay. My muse is once again being a stubborn idiot. **

**While I'm on the subject, I've been looking for a name for him. Any suggestions? Ha, it's a 'name the muse' contest. And he is most definitely a guy. And a pain in the posterior. And fickle. **

**Moron.

* * *

**

**Chapter Twenty Five: Legacies**

**Leah**

Henry was most definitely his mother's son.

And it had never been more evident than now. He stalked closer to us in the dim hallway that echoed with the shrill laughter of ballerinas and the low booms of their companions. He was a panther hunting in the jungle of the Populaire cloaked in his dark tailored suit. And his murderous eye was fixed on my new acquaintance.

If my brother had possessed a tail, it would have been lashing violently.

"Philippe!" He positively spat the name.

"Henry?" The young monsieur, Philippe apparently, seemed as genuinely confused as I, "What's wrong my friend?"

Henry ignored him, pushing him aside and breaking our handhold. I had not noticed that Philippe had still been clasping the stolen appendage. How sweet…

But I had no time to ponder the endearing qualities of this…Philippe, as my dear brother filled my view. He roughly grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Did he touch you Leah? Are you alright?" He all but screamed.

I was so shocked that I could not find my voice. He had NEVER been rough with me like this! Well, if you discounted fencing matches. But one look into his wide open eyes revealed his panic and worry, returning my power of speech.

"No! Henry, I am fine!" My annoyance began to build. He may very well have prevented my first kiss! "And there is no need to let the whole opera house in on our little conversation!"

"Oh…well, yes…I suppose you're right…" he stammered embarrassedly. "Sorry" could barely be made out of his unintelligible mutter that accompanied a little smile.

"Wait!" Philippe interjected with obvious bewilderment, his forehead adorably distorted by all the wrinkles of a worn out bed sheet. "Henry, do you two know each other?"

It was all that either of us could do suppress the equal amounts of humor and uncertain horror. The question was so foolish that it deserved no answer, but neither of us could reveal who I had been. If anyone knew that Henry was my brother, being disinherited would not do either of us a bit of good.

"Well,…we used to…" I began tentatively.

"…know each other better." Henry finished for me. As an after thought, he threw a sly, implicating glance in his friend's direction. I was a bit insulted by what my hermano was hinting at, but at least it would serve as a good cover story for meeting him another day.

There was a short, ungainly silence that was only ended by Henry's quick wit. He offered me his arm, and politely asked if I would accompany him _elsewhere_ for a while. It would have been difficult not to laugh if poor Philippe did not look so downhearted at my departure. To be honest, _I_ was a little disappointed myself.

I would at least be polite I decided. Part of me still wanted to see him again. But my chance to speak was snatched away, by the object of my thought no less. Even as I was looking back at him, he caught my hand and halted our flight.

"Mademoiselle…"

"Iglesias" I replied smoothly. My invented surname.

"I will speak to you again, Mademoiselle Iglesias." He grinned uncertainly.

"Nos verrons." I replied cryptically, with a mysterious grin of my own as Henry finally succeeded in maneuvering me around the corner.

* * *

**The Next Morning**

**Leah**

She burst into a fit of giggles.

And they were utterly infectious. The entire morning had been like this, full of quiet laughter and long hallways as we aimlessly explored our home. Everyone else was still fast asleep in the dorms, exhausted by an arduous performance last night. Only we two were awake, I because I had only been in one number and she because she had come too late in the season to be included in this production. I continued retelling my experiences of the night before to the willing audience of one elfin blond who bobbed along beside me.

"Once we got around the corner, I thought Henry was going to explode like a Chinese firecracker! You should have seen his face. He was so very red."

"What did he say?" piped Christine as we passed another intersection of hallways on the third floor.

"Oh, he just told me to be careful. He said that Philippe wasn't always _trustworthy_ around pretty girls. Then I told him that there was nothing to worry about since I wasn't a pretty girl."

"You're so silly!" She tinkled. "Did you go and find Philippe?"

"Not exactly. He sort of found me."

"What?" She cocked her head to one side and her eyebrows slumped on her little white forehead. With contracted, quizzical eyes, she easily resembled a little sparrow.

"After I had reassured him, Henry and I said goodnight. I was making my way back to our room when Philippe startled me."

Her eyes grew round with a touch of wonder. "Did he bring you flowers?"

I inwardly smiled. The idea that he could have accosted me didn't occur anywhere in that minute little head of hers. She was still so happily unaware of the realities that surrounded her.

I resolved to protect that innocence in her for as long as I could. Ignorance truly was bliss. How I wished that I still had that precious gift!

There were so many things in my life that I wished that I didn't understand.

"No dear, he simply wanted to talk. He was very sweet. He inquired about seeing me outside the opera sometime."

"Well…" she squirmed "What did you say?"

She was nearly jumping.

"I was tempted to just say 'we shall see' again, but I couldn't do it. I said yes!"

"OOO! Really?" She squealed. "Hey, where does this door go?"

Christine always managed to find some way to keep me smiling. So full of life and inquisitiveness, it was hard for her to keep her mind on any one subject for more than a few minutes at a time. So adolescent at all times. I glanced up at the door she was referring to.

"Hmm. I'm not entirely sure. Why don't we take a look? We have two hours to left to wander around."

Yet another squeaking door.

Damn.

My grandmother's moral admonitions stirred within me violently. "I didn't say it!" I tried to defend myself to them mentally.

Outside the realm of my odd thoughts, the d … blasted … door gave way to a musty stairway.

"Up or down?" I asked her. The stairs extended to all the floors of the great monster. The monster was my little nickname for my new home, an affectionate title I had bestowed on it the first day I arrived. It reminded me of some massive, shaggy beast that lived and breathed around us. And above us. And below us.

Christine pondered this for a moment. "Down." She decided and promptly proceeded to gallop down the rough stone steps of the service stairwell, dragging me behind her.

We tripped downwards until the stairs ended at yet another … accursed … unoiled door. A faint blend of scents tickled my memory from beyond the obstruction. Musty, faded greenness … where?

"Ooh!" came little Christine's squeak. "It's a stable! Did you know there was a stable here Leah?"

"No, I suppose I didn't." I followed her voice out of the shadows and into a brighter section of the large room, mildly interested in her discovery. Abuela had never allowed me near our stables, though I had occasionally wished to get a better look at the horses. I had never even learned to ride. In light of my other less than feminine pursuits, I truly could not blame her.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Christine's unexpected expression. She was softly stroking a fat dappled mare while staring blankly at the back of her stall. Her mouth was slightly tipped up at the corners and her candy blue eyes were unfocused, as though she were lost in thought.

"I know all about that." I thought.

"What is on your mind, Christine?" I asked, raising my hand to rest on her shoulder.

"Just thinking about the smell of hay."

"The smell of hay?" I giggled.

"Mmm. I love the smell of hay. It reminds me of my father." There was a bitter sweet quality to her words. "Before papa got sick, we used to travel all over Sweden in the summers. Just because we could. We went from city to city and town to town, papa playing his violin and me singing. His music was so beautiful. When you heard him play, it was like seeing into his soul."

She sat down in the hay just outside the stall, and I quickly joined her. She crawled into my lap and began to finger a wisp of my hair in her chubby hands.

"At night, we used to sleep in barns."

"Were you poor?" I tried to be sensitive.

"No, it was simply … a good change. Something different. Mama and papa Valerius took us in when I was two, just after mama went to heaven. We didn't have to worry about money under their care. It was just freeing I suppose, not to have to worry about anything. Not even where we would sleep."

"But in a barn?" I was a bit shocked. "Wasn't it uncomfortable?"

"Oh no, not at all! Those are still some of my favorite memories of my father. He would play before we went to sleep and tell me stories. I remember that he used to love to tickle me with the whiskers of his big, droopy mustache. Are you ticklish?

There was that easily distracted thought process of hers again.

"A little."

"Where?" She asked deviously.

"And why do you want to know?"

"Oh, no reason…"

"Very funny. I'll only tell you mine if you tell me yours."

"Well that's easy. I'm ticklish just about everywhere."

"I'm not that bad. Just my feet and my sides and behind my knees."

"My father told me a story once about a ticklish giant. Little Loti met him in a castle."

"Little Loti?"

"She was in all my papa's stories. She was a singer, just like me."

"What were his stories about?"

"Oh, a thousand different things. Fairytales and love stories and his travels before he met my mother. Little Loti went everywhere and did everything. She met talking animals at the sea shore and angels in clothes cupboards."

"Angels?"

"Yes! That was one of our favorites. The angel of music."

* * *

**Author's notes:**

I am pondering the notion that Christine, well my interpretation of Christine any how, may have ADD. Not ADHD, the hormonal disease that causes excessive hyperness, but ADD, which causes difficulty in the area of concentration. My brother has ADD, so if I do write her as having ADD, I feel that I can be fair about portraying it in a character. It's just a thought, but tell me what your reactions are to it. I want her to have a REAL personality, but I do feel that (my) Christine has a kind of spacey aspect to her personality. I wouldn't go so far as to call her ditzy, but definitely not level headed either, so I thought ADD might shine a different light on her. Please respond dearies.

* * *

**Responses:**

No dear, I am afraid I did not receive your return e-mail. Worry not. When you are done with your hectic move, just let me know and I shall once again send you a chapter. Many thanks as always.


	26. Who Do You Think?

**I had hoped to post this on Friday, as it was my birthday, but I had people over. Yes, my birthday is Friday the thirteenth. **

**Explains a few things, no?**

**Warning dears, it may be a week before my next update. I am extremely sorry, but much as I hate to admit it, even I must sometimes venture outside the blessed walls of happy writer's land. Blast. And I know, short chapter, sorry again. (She sobs wildly.) I must devote myself to school work if I have any hope of graduating.**

**Stupid real world existence.**

**Grr.

* * *

**

**Chapter Twenty Six: Who Do You Think?

* * *

**

**Leah**

I sat up straighter, my interest sparked.

"The angel of music, huh?"

When Christine did not respond, I turned to see a glimmering of reflected light on her cheek.

"Oh Christine!" I murmured, taking her delicate hand in my more substantial one. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have brought up your father."

"No, it's not that…" She sniffled. "Well, it is…but it isn't. I miss him so much. I keep thinking of his last promise to me. He said he would … he would…" She began to hiccup.

"You don't have to explain if you don't want to. I understand." I said as I pulled her closer to me. My prying nature_ did_ deeply want to know what she was mumbling about, but I wouldn't force her. She was in enough pain the way it was.

"No, I want to tell you." She gave me a lopsided smile as she drew herself up. "The angel of music was one of our favorite stories. Papa said that the angel of music was the spirit that god sent to inspire every _real_ artist. Musicians, painters, poets, dancers … and singers." She beamed at the fond memories, but slowly her smile faded.

"When he started to get sick, he told me those stories more. He would lock the door to his room and we would sit there. He would play his music. Sometimes he told me how much he missed maman. We would stay up till the sunrise, just us."

"But he got worse. When Mama Valerius took him to the hospital, he made me a promise. I told him not to die. I didn't want to be alone. He said that I would never be alone, that he would send me a friend. _When he was in heaven_. He promised me the angel of music. I tried so hard to tell him. I didn't want any angel! Even the angel of music."

"I just wanted him. But he wouldn't stay."

"Tina." I could only whisper her nickname into her trembling curls as I continued to stroke her hand.

"I've been so stupid." She sobbed. "I've been waiting and hoping so hard! But no angel is coming. There is no heaven! Papa is gone and I will never see him again."

She fell apart again in the straw next to me.

"Yes there is! There is a heaven!" Inwardly I cringed upon hearing myself.

Who was I to say such a thing? I wasn't even certain if _God_ existed, much less heaven. And yet, I couldn't just leave her hanging like that. She needed reassurance in what she had clung to for so long. I wouldn't let my personal doubts deny her that.

"Even if it does, who cares? I'm not there, I'm not with him! I haven't even gone to church since he died. I can't…"

Our exchange was quickly cut short by the thump of a door at the other end of the stable.

"Hello?" A baritone voice echoed slightly around the cluttered space. "Who's in here?"

Utterly embarrassed, I quickly brushed the sweet hay from my simple tweed skirt. Checking the delicate cuffs of my chocolate blouse, I helped an unsteady Christine just as the intruder came around the corner.

And my breath proceeded to vanish.

No one thing about him was particularly stunning. A bit shy of six feet, he was well muscled and broad shouldered. His skin was tanned the color of a rich toffee, even darker than my own unattractive hues of light bronze. Once again I unconsciously lamented my olive complexion, the one part of my heritage that I was less than proud of.

His clothing continued the theme of drab browns throughout his stockings, breaches, leather vest, work shirt, and oversized cap. The hat obscured his eyes, but freckles and fistfuls of burnt straw hair stuck out at odd angle from underneath it.

And yet, something about him spoke to me.

Maybe it was his devilish grin.

When he saw us, a smirk rose up on his face. He was near the brink of laughter.

"I guess no chorus girl can resist the allure of these charming animals. I am never done chasing all of you out of here, am I?"

* * *

**Eric**

"Who does that damnible boy think he is?" The question echoed about my shriveled skull.

After the initial shock of discovery had worn off, Christine and her friend warmed up to that _stable scraping_ rapidly. They seemed so at ease with him.

It should have been me down there, making the niceties and introducing myself.

Why not? Were we truly so different? We each had the same body parts. Hands, legs, a head, and the like.

Hell, we didn't even dress so very differently.

I unconsciously rolled up the sleeve of my thin cotton shirt and compared the gleaming caramel of his leather vest to the nattered burgundy of my own waistcoat. A discarded prop from one production or another, like most of my 'wardrobe'. The only thing I had not borrowed from the host I played parasite to was the obsidian mask that concealed my detestable face.

At least _my_ trousers were devoid of horse swallop.

"Damn him!" The whispered curse dripped from my sunken lips with all the poison of my wounded heart.

"Fool," A voice rang out hollowly, "Why should you be hurt? She doesn't even know that you exist. She isn't betraying you."

"But why shouldn't she get to know you?" Another spoke up. "What could be harmful in that?"

"What could be harmful in that?" My cynical nature was tempted to laugh at the ironic musings of my own strange little mind. "Why nothing, nothing at all!"

"No more harmful than being caught in a lion's cage while smelling of fresh meat."

Ah, what would I have done without my infallible sense of humor to lighten my black moods?

Still, my jest had unintentionally provoked an old memory that I would have rather left buried in the dusts of an abandoned fairground. Even though I had been free of that life for thirteen years, I still harbored many deep hidden wreaks laden with toxic memories. And I continued to avoid cats whenever possible.

_The lion snorted in his sleep, restlessly tossing his regally moth bitten mane from side to side. 'Weak and old', the other boys had said._

Looking back, I should have known better than to trust anyone billed as 'The Two Headed Wonder" or 'The Wolf Child'.

_I had only been saved from the agitated beast by its keeper, a bulbous witch of a woman with more moles than teeth. Her breath stank of whiskey as she castigated me for coming near her 'pets'. _

"_Who do you think you are, going off where you're not to go? Are you stupid child? Well? Speak up! Come on now, tell me! Who do you think you are?"_

"Who _do_ you think you are?" I muttered to myself.

I was acting the fool. What hare brained idea had caused me to believe that I could be of any use to this girl? What could _I_ possibly do to ease her pain?

Besides, who but an angel would be able to lift that kind of weight off of someone's shoulders?

An angel…

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

_Christita – adding ita to the end of a name is a Spanish term of endearment. It's kind of a way of saying little or baby. So therefore it roughly translates into something like little Christine, little baby, or sweetheart. (ito applies the same way to boys.) At least, I'm pretty sure about that. I picked it up when my mother and I went to Peru. We were at a church down there and all the people were SO incredibly loving. Everybody in the church is referred to as brother (hermano) so and so or sister (hermana) such and such. One of the grandmotherly women called me hermanita, so I asked one of my friends who speaks some English what it meant. She had called me little baby sister. I thought it sounded so adorable. I couldn't resist putting it in here as a little tribute to the amazing people we met there. So Leah may often refer to Christine as Christita or hermanita._

Many thanks to Allegratree, my invaluble fish (beta), for her help with the Spanish. She informed me that it would be more correct to call her Tina or (tenatively) Tinita. I do like the sound of Tinita. I rolls off the tongue and its fun to say.

_I haven't had many years of Spanish, so if any of my little inclusions are not grammatically correct, please let me know._

_Do you guys think that the title makes sense? Do you get it?_

_Note: Eric has yet to enter into his trademark formal evening attire. That comes later. Guess how. Go on, guess!_

* * *

**Responses:**

**Azurelacroix: **I hope you don't mind if I christen thee ALC for the purposes of responding. My spell checker doesn't like your name. Any who, THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING! I rain down cheesecake upon you from the heavenly warehouses. (Yes, they _do_ exist.) It's great to 'see' another new face. Thank you so much for the compliment. Especially if you don't care for first person. (To tell you the truth, neither do I.) And here I am writing an entire little novella in the first person. Smart, huh? Sorry about the up coming chapter shortage, but once summer is here, I am a FREE WOMAN! Wee-hee!

**Allegratree: **No, my cherished friend, I did not receive the e-mail. Urg, one of our computers is not being helpful. I have e-mailed you as well. Perhaps you had the wrong address? When I get a successful e-mail back from you, I shall speedily address the next chapter to you. (That is, once I am done with my confounded school work.) Just listen to me! Ak, I sound like Degas writing to Faure. One more week monsieur! Ha ha, bad joke, I know.

As for the chapter: yes … I … suppose… it … does. Thank you. I discovered the same infirmity in this chapter and attempted to squash the nasty little virus. Hope it worked. / _**"**Also, a story teller shouldn't need to correct themselves in their own narration."_ Huh? What did she correct? I'm lost. (As usual.) / Concerning Christine's speech, another goal scored by you. Again, I caught that very same thing happening in this chapter due to your help, but at times I am unsure as to how to allow her to sound childish without letting idioms of the present day slip in.

By the way, how did the move go? I hope all is well with you and yours!

**JPT: **Thank you, I love you, what else can I say. Your persistent reviews inspire me.


	27. Humor

**Many apologies for the unforgivable delay! **

**Stone me, mock me, tickle me! I deserve the headsman. **

**I know I hate it when an author doesn't post for ages. **

**The good news is that I am now a FREE WOMAN! (Dance of joy!) Graduation is this Wednesday, and I am stoked! I hope to be updating again more frequently now that school is (temporarily) over.

* * *

All shall now bow down before the greatness that is my beta fish, Allegratree, for she rules the universe. (Well, that may be taking it a touch too far, but she's still pretty neat!)

* * *

**

**Chapter Twenty Seven: Humor

* * *

**

**Leah**

We had little time to tarry with our new acquaintance, for warm-ups loomed immanently.

Bidding M. Bouquet a pleasant farewell, I hurried to the dormitories with Christine in tow. Once inside our room, I threw one hasty glance in the general direction of the small, brass clock.

"Goodness gracious!" I exclaimed, vaguely proud of myself for having avoided profanity. There were only five minutes left until Madame's cane would fall with a crash on the stage floor to signal the start of stretches.

I flew to the squatty wardrobe, impatiently piling the necessary garments onto the bed next to me. Off came my blouse and skirt, my fingers unsteady on the invisible snaps of the closures. They were joined on the floor by my heavy chemise, as I would need a lighter one for practice. I now regretted having forgone my corset earlier that morning in favor of comfort.

Not only would its laces delay my efforts, I was cold as well. The air of nine o'clock in the morning was not much warmer than the air of six o'clock, when we had wakened. Wearing only my pantaloons and stockings, my chest was bare to the chill of the early spring morning. Goose pimples began to form on my naked flesh as I fumbled with the laces of my corset. Christine, sensing my hurry, deftly plucked the loosely ribbed garment from my hands.

"I'll help," she said simply, indicating that I was to attend to opening the fastenings of the light blue bodice that lay out on the bed.

A few moments of silence followed whilst we focused on our respective tasks. Christine's nimble fingers were first to finish, and she issued another short command.

"Arms up." She directed. Without thinking, I complied. It was only with my arms up in the air that I realized how foolish the scene was. We broke out into giggles simultaneously.

With the laces only loosened instead of completely removed, Christine was far too short to maneuver the article over my head.

Still laughing, I turned my back to her as she stood atop the bed. With a few short jerks on my laces and a few breaths lost, the vice was snug about my abdomen. It was followed by a light chemise, my bodice, and vibrant yellow tulle.

I swiftly gathered my hair into the net of an eggshell snood and gave the effect a hasty review before quitting the dormitories. Another fit of giggle ensued as I hoisted Christine onto my back and rushed out the door, nearly forgetting to lock it behind us. The foolish means of transportation would surely slow me down some, but I had grown used to our little ritual. With her lanky arms twisted around my neck and her chubby legs secured about my waist, Christine was feather light and gave my athletic legs very little trouble.

Her slight figure was a comfort to me, and even in our mad race downward my heart was thankful for her presence. I could never make up to her all that she had been for me. Or could I?

Throughout practice, my mind drifted back to her talk of angels.

**Eric

* * *

**

I surveyed the snowfall that besieged me with utter despair.

Every surface in my home was blanketed in white. My cozy apartment had become a mockery of a wintry scene in my attempt to find the desired piece. Sheet music coated each surface like a plague of two toned frost.

I had left the irritation of the stables in favor of the comfort of my quarters. I found them to be much more conducive to thought, especially because of their lack of pungent stench. The last several hours had been consumed with pacing, growling, and gritting of teeth.

Had a stranger been present, they might have assumed me to be pondering a murder instead of considering a gift for a lonely child.

I had run through the normal packages one might send to a mourner. Letters of condolences, flowers, trinkets. None of them had the power to raise the spirits. I wanted to give her something to assuage the pain, not to remind her of her emptiness.

Frustrated, I acknowledged that I could only offer her one thing.

My music.

So few had ever heard it before, and my recent rejection did nothing to bolster my confidence. But she needed it. With a song, I could provide her with a precious illusion, a hope in the lie of a life beyond the present one. A falsehood, but it would give her some degree of peace. I knew in my heart (if indeed such an organ still resided in my mangled cadaver) that I had wanted that reassurance when I had been in her position.

To this day, I am still unsure as to just what possessed me to act as I did. Perhaps I was lonely. Perhaps I wanted an audience. Maybe I thought that it would ease my own pain to lessen the pain of another. It may have been that I was simply bored. Whatever my motivation, I refused to question it, pushing it into the back of my mind.

I held the simple lullaby in trembling fingers, anxious to see its effect on the little girl. Would she see through my disguise? Would she be frightened? Or merely laugh at the absurdity of it all?

I soon busied myself with setting the room to rights in an attempt to ignore the lingering doubts. Carefully, respectfully, I replaced the sheets of lined paper in their respective portfolios, inspecting each for any signs of damage due to my hurried search. One by one, the slim leather binders were returned to their proper shelves. After another few hours of labor, I stood back to admire the results of my effort.

The polished bookcases were once again filled with my work, each piece in its place. The sofa and the divan were free of clutter, their pillows once again plumped and inviting. The lamps were trimmed and glowing, reflecting off of the shiny surface of my new armchair, resplendent in its coal black leather. I eased my tired frame into its embrace, setting the pages of my composition on top of the dark mahogany end table at its side.

Unable to continue to consider the folly of my plan any longer, I stared into the crackling depths of the shale fireplace. My thoughts ambled through the various disjointed regions of my mind: painful memories, present sensations, and future plans.

Finaly, I perched upon an important scheme that had remained in its protective chrysalis for far too long. I had been plotting my little coup upon the management ever since that fateful night in the box. _My box_, I reminded myself, savoring the sweet flavor of ownership that I had missed for so long.

But despite my best attempts, I was still at a loss as to how I might go about such an endeavor. I couldn't very well just stroll into their office and demand that they turn over the keys to the theater, though the thought had crossed my mind. It would be rather simple.

I would merely discard my mask in their presence and they would think Beelzebub himself had descended upon them!

I chuckled morosely at the scene painted inside my mind. "The expressions on their faces would be priceless!" I thought drolly. I shook my head at my own ridiculousness. What would I do with out my sense of humor?

And slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly, it dawned upon me.

"Why not?" I asked myself aloud.

I had been called "Devil's Child" more than once. Demon spawn, diseased filth, damnation of God … Satan himself was little different.

Well, perhaps not that title. That was a little too strong, and brought with it a host of childhood memories that were much better left forgotten. But something sinister.

An inane grin began to materialize on my blessedly bare face, the imprisoning mask having been set aside long ago. What had Giry's twit called me? A ghost?

Besides, Polygany was a superstitious little bastard.

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

_I'm not sure about the speed at which I will be updating in the near future. Here's the thing. I've got two issues. (Well, I have quite a few mental issues, but I doubt you will find my insanities half as interesting my story's issues.) So here it is. Firstly, I'm just kind of having motivational issues. I have the basic plot of the first three fourths of the story mapped out, but I'm just feeling uninspired lately. I keep looking back over what I've written so far, and I am rather disgusted by it. I find new things wrong with it every time I read it. Perhaps that's all of my recent papers for school talking. I'm hoping that my laziness will go away once the trial of finals and graduation has ceased. We'll just have to wait and see. _

_The second problem isn't necessarily a problem per say, but it may hinder the progression of this story. I recently got a burst of inspiration for another story, one with a more original plot and characters. I have a lot of research to do, but I think it may be much better than this pitiful excuse for a story. I'm tentatively considering titling it "The Linen Road". Let's just say that it is EC and EOW, but at the same time, and definitely NOT the way you might think. _

**If anyone out there has some wise insight into the French language, I could use a little help with a small amount of translations for the new piece. Also, I am in need of someone who is knowledgeable when it comes to the Catholic religion. I am a Christian, but not a Catholic, and one of my main characters is Catholic, so I may need some pointers here and there.**

_I have discovered the word 'whilst'. Now that is an awesome word. Expect it to appear in my common vocabulary. _

_Yes, snaps on clothing are period. I checked. They weren't that different than metal snaps today._

_Yes, corsets are period (worn more loosely that during the day I would hope!) under a ballerina's dancing outfit. Just how they managed it is quite beyond me though.

* * *

_

**Responses:**

**Allegratree-**I shall apply those as soon as I have a chance. The Tinita thing sounds MUCH better, thank you. I will head your wise advice and re-read that section of the book. I have been meaning to re-read the entire thing for a while now, because I want to go through it with my ink pen and my highlighter to read it criticaly and take notes. Your sugestion has motivated me. Thanks for everything! Much love. How did you fare in the hectic-ness of the move?

**ALC-**Thank you dearly for reviewing again. And I shall review that for you the first chance I get.

**JPT-** are you alright dear? This is the first time you haven't reviewed and I must say I'm a bit worried! Please tell me you are not in the hospital.


	28. Gray

**

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Chapter Twenty Eight: Gray

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**

**Leah**

The early morning light was tinted a glacial gray by the window's veil of ice.

The sleet had begun during the final calls for places the previous afternoon. At first, the sound of the cold rain on the auditorium roof had been a light and pleasant one. Unfortunately, it had later become an annoyance, fast and just loud enough to detract from the opera.

"But watching the people on the stairs was worth it!" Christine exclaimed, nearly upsetting all my hard work for the second time in the last five minutes.

Last night's Opera goers had had quite a time getting into their various carriages. The floors and stairs of every exit had been slick with freezing rain.

More than one portly patron had found themselves in an embarrassing position on the pavement.

"You have a point." I replied, snickering at the memory. "But you must stay still! I'm going to loose hold."

Tina quickly complied, eager to see my work completed. I couldn't really blame the girl for growing a tad bit anxious. I had been plaiting her pail blond hair for nearly an hour, each complicated section comprised of four strands.

It had proven more challenging than I had originally expected, for my little hermanita seemed to continually forget that my fingers were attached to her scalp.

Over the last few weeks I had learned to tolerate her short attention span. Indeed, the only subject her juvenile mind seemed capable of fixing on for more than five minutes was that of music. And predictably, music was the next thing on her mind.

"I can't wait till next Monday!"

"Yes, the suspense is terrible. What do you think it will be?"

"Hmm…" She pondered, "I hope it's something new."

"That would be nice."

With the current performance nearing a close, a new opera was immanent. This Opera was rather unique though, as it was the anticipated selection only titled 'Management's Discretion' in the patrons' seasonal calendars. Each season, one such mysterious booking was listed. And every year, the Monsieurs Poligany and Debbine kept the name a secret until the first day of rehearsals.

Some strange notion about boosting sales.

But regardless of its origins, everyone in the Populaire was brimming with curiosity. Some of the staff even went so far as to bet on which opera would be chosen.

But despite the giddy tension around me, I could not help my drooping spirits. Orpheus et Eurydice was nearly spent, for only three nights of performance remained. Worse, closing night would be my final role on stage this season. And there were no promises made for next season either.

Tina often had poor taste in conversational topics.

But despite my grey humor, I had to paint on a bright smile for my friend. Why should she be concerned about my inadequacies when her career was bright and promising?

"Whatever it is, I know you'll be wonderful in it." I assured her. "But you'll never get onto any stage if you don't let me finish!"

"I wish today were Monday!" She pouted and squirmed, completely ignoring the later portion of my advice. "Madame said I might even get a small part!"

It stung. Despite wanting the best for her, I still wished it were me who had been promised a part. I squelched the envious sliver of sadness as I placed the final pin in her bobbing head, tamping down my emotions as I gave her a little hug.

"All done, Tinita." I masked my hurt with a bright tone. "Take a look in the mirror."

"Well, at least I'm a better actress than I am a ballerina." I thought sarcastically as she tripped merrily over to the half-length oval mirror on our white-papered wall.

She twirled around in childish glee before its ancient surface, her reflection mildly warped by the hairline cracks. I felt a small burst of pride at how beautiful she looked, each braid perfectly fixed into an elegant little coronet.

She would look adorable tonight when a select number of the understudies would be allowed to see the performance in a row of seats that had not sold. Madame had justified it as 'valuable experience', and Christine couldn't have been happier.

I only hoped she would be so happy when she saw my little surprise. I had spent all of my scanty free time creating it, stealing up to the attic space whenever I had a spare moment.

After hearing her memories of angels and her reluctance to go back to church without her father, I had fashioned a little chapel of our own in the bright room. Now a mural of angels adorned the once white plaster of its ceiling.

I had sought out Madame as soon as I had conceived my little plan, in order to obtain some sort of permission. I hadn't been about to put paint on somebody's building with out asking politely! She had listened, and when I was done she graced me with a rare smile of approval. She gave me her blessing and I had begun that night, gathering my supplies while the other girls gathered around the patrons.

My thoughts drifted to one patron in particular, and I smiled fondly at the image of his face and the memory of our last meeting. The Count had insisted that I address him only as Philippe, but in my mind he would remain _the Count_ for a little longer. Still, perhaps Wednesday evening might change that.

I had promised the Count my hand for one of the many upcoming galas this spring, a celebration of one of his relative's engagements. It was the one bright event in my future, and I waited in impatiently for its arrival. Indeed, Wednesday would prove to be an exciting day, and not just because of his invitation. As Tuesday was the final performance of Orpheus, I had planned to surprise Tina the next morning. Then I would have the rest of our short break all to myself.

Maybe the future wasn't so gray after all.

"Leah? Leah!" I was startled from my plans by Tina's piping. "Are you awake?"

"I'm sorry dear, perhaps I'm not." We shared a silent moment of wittiness. "What were you saying?"

"I asked you what you think." She held her adorable theater frock on its little wooden hanger to her chest as she spun about, waiting for my inspection. I was inadvertently reminded of her constant fidgeting under my fingers, and I responded without contemplating my words.

"I think tomorrow we are going back to spending the mornings exploring."

**Eric **

I had spent days agonizing over every detail of our first encounter.

And the day had finally come. Even the weather had complied, a seasonal storm of freezing rain providing a perfect backdrop. My net was laid perfectly, and the prey was due to walk into it momentarily. I had thought it rather appropriate to begin my takeover in the same place that the idea had been born.

Box Five.

My ammunition was twofold, for I would prey on his two weakest points. Superstion and guilt.

From my lushly padded seat inside the statue, I saw the dark door swing open. In came Laurent Poligany, heavy set and suspicious in his usual uniform of a gray tweed. His sausage-like fingers were crushing a piece of black lined stationary. I recognized my daring seal. He set down his oil lamp, barely illuminating half of the box, completing the eerie scene I had set. The rest of the auditorium would appear, to him at least, an inky sea of unfathomable black.

"All right, you scallywag! Come out and show yourself. Face me like a man!" He punctuated his last sentence by lightly slapping his substantial chest with one hand in a gesture of defiance.

I had expected some sort of indignant reaction to my arrogant summons, but this bordered the comical! I nearly laughed.

Composing myself, I readied my voice and summoned a skill I had not used since my days with the gypsies. I projected my voice to fill the entire auditorium, but kept the volume just above a whisper.

"I am afraid I can do neither." I hissed, using the full extent of my persuasive powers. "For you cannot see me, and I am no longer a man."

The effect was immediate. With each muttered syllable, his ruddy complexion paled, leaving a pallid gray when I finished. He resembled a ghost himself.

It was almost too good to be true. I had bet heavily on his fallacies of spiritualism, but I had never imagined it would be so easy.

"Who … whoo are you?" He stammered, as though the great white throne of judgment had just risen up before him.

"Not who …" I narrowed the focus of my voice down to a tiny point above his left shoulder and dropped it even lower.

_"What."_

He started like a nervous filly, and began to back up towards the door.

"That would be unwise." My voice emanated from the door itself. "You have many sins to pay for, and I am not the only soul who still roams the earth."

He was on the edge of tears, utterly terrified. I had him in the palm of my discolored hand.

"What do you want?" He squeaked.

"All that you owe." I allowed a few moments of disturbing silence to settle over him before I continued.

"I think that we shall start with a return of the Populaire to its rightful owner." I breathed, my tonal focus not two inches from his nose.

I opened a tiny vent just above his lamp, extinguishing all light. Even my eyes could only make out the edges of the chairs in the deepest shades of gray.

"Now about this new opera of yours…"

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

**_Author's Notes: _**_ ♫K, My absolutely BRILLIANT beta, Allegratree, pointed out several important things. Firstly, Christine couldn't be dancing very well in just a month or so of training at the opera house and only the prima ballerina usually gets any kind of solo. This is true. Note, I did not say that Christine was dancing in the production. There's a hint for you, but I shall say no more. However, Christine is a better dancer than Leah. More to come on that. And didn't she sing before her father died? Yeah, that gets answered next chapter. _

_ ♪Next Chapter: READERS GET TO DECIDE. Well, part of it any who. Do you want to hear a lot about Leah's big date? Or just kind of mention it? You choose. Also, next chapter you'll find out a little more about Eric with a c's past and how he got into the opera house, but as usual, you the reader will have to do some deductive reasoning of your own. :D

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_

**Responses: JPT-**SHE LIVES! Huzzah! I was wondering if you had been run over … or set on fire … or abducted by aliens… But you weren't, so joy and happiness prevail once again! Cheesecake for everybody. And no, it's Tina or Tinita. I origionaly thought it would be Chritinita too, but both my beta and my Spanish teacher, Profe as she is fondly dubbed, said otherwise. As for the black mask, thank you, but I am really just mooching off Leroux. He is kind of my primary inspiration. So his WHOLE FACE is covered, not one of those little half mask things. As for M. Bouquet, I'll warn you, he's probably not the M Bouquet you are thinking of… The ANTZ! They live!

**ALT-**no worries about shameless self promotion, we all do it from time to time :D (heh, just wait till next chapter, you'll see what I mean.) And your story is quite good, so I was happy that you said something. Thank you again, as always.

**Allegratree**-I hope my author's note solves some of the dilemma? And I am still praying for your puppy. Did you try to send me some kind of image with the last e-mail? I couldn't see it. Blasted internet. Thanks as always, you are a godsend.

**Avid Reader**- Its always great to hear from some one new! I bestow upon thee the gift of cheesecake. Don't worry, I won't let this story die. You have inspired me to keep going, along with my little niche of devoted reviewers. You all rock!


	29. A Moment in Your Arms

**Ok, the chapter title is a shameless self promotion on a duet I wrote a while ago. I'm just a terrible person like that. Any who, here's the excerpt:**

…A moment in the arms I adore  
We'll fly away to distant shores  
To a world I never noticed

Now life's not such a chore  
Each day is something to explore  
The world is alive in brilliant color…

**There's a lot more to it, but I'm not _that_ shameless. Any who, since you were good readers and put up with that without breaking out the rotten vegetables, you get a longer chapter. Woot.

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**Chapter Twenty Nine: A Moment in Your Arms

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**

**Leah**

"Now?"

"No! Keep them closed just a little longer. We're almost there." A faint smile shone through my voice.

Orpheus's final curtain had fallen just the night before. As I lead Christine up to the attic by Wednesday morning's light, I tried to put everything behind me and focus on the present.

Before I had the chance to think about anything else, we arrived at the dark stained door. It still gleamed slightly from the last time I had polished it, and I was thankful for all the effort I had employed to oil the monster. It swung open silently, much to my satisfaction.

The room itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. Light poured in from the circular windows, gentle and warm, tenderly stroking every surface. It was nearly ten o'clock, and the sun seemed to send its approval for my plan in every ray that played upon the ceiling.

Tensely, I removed my arm from around Christine's slim little shoulders before speaking.

"Alright, you can open them."

With the hasty excitement that only a child of seven could have mustered, her eyes fluttered open. I leaned forward, trying to discern her reaction.

For an instant, she simply stared at my gift, her face blank of any emotion. Only her eyelids gave any hint of movement, growing abnormally wide. If anything, she appeared a bit puzzled.

I could take no more. I sought to explain, lest she misunderstand it somehow.

"Tina, I wanted you to have something to remind you of your father …" I stammered, unsure of exactly what to say. "And you said that you missed going to church with him. It's a chapel just for us … do you like it?"

She attacked me with the force of a storm on the sea, squeezing my abdomen with a surprising strength. The wind was knocked out of me, making a curious counterpoint to the soft swish of her flying skirts, the only other sound in the room.

Well, for a moment at least.

She let out a toe-curling squeal of joy, and I immediately decided that she was a natural coloratura.

"Oh thank you Leah!" She began to bounce with unadulterated delight. "Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!"

Her exultations unexpectedly knocked both of us off balance, and we fell to the floor in a heap of skirts and petticoats and legs. Her arms were still wrapped around me, though with a less fearsome grip. My snood clung to my hair with only a handful of its numerous pins still attached.

With one look at the disarray of each other's faces, we both burst out into unquenchable laughter. The hilarity of the situation continued to evoke our hysterics for several minutes without ceasing. I began to double over as an acute pain began to throb in my side from the exertion. I attempted to calm myself, but was utterly foiled in the endeavor when Tina let out a monstrous snort.

After what seemed an eternity, we collapsed together, spent and happy. As I leaned against the cool, bumpy surface of the attic wall, I removed my snood. Free of their torturous prison, my tresses settled around us and pooled on the cheap pine floor like a muddy waterfall. Tina settled into my lap with a comfortable grunt, and I snuggled her closer in my arms. We sat there for nearly an hour, talking of many things in quiet voices.

_I still look back on those days as some of my happiest, when we were young and carefree.

* * *

_

**Eric**

He refused to be still!

The damnable man was in a state of perpetual motion. I stalked him from inside the passages of his own creation, waiting for a moment to pounce. The man owed me a debt, and I intended to collect it before the night was full.

His travels took him from one end of the opera house to the other. He stopped every so often to put his head in a door and converse a moment, but for the most part he focused on his duties.

"At least I have one employee who does his job." I thought absently.

Having finished repairing a broken door knob in one of the many prop rooms while skillfully dodging the comings and goings of the other personnel, Bonar Giry was now leading me up a flight of stairs.

"What is he doing here?" I wondered, halting as my passage ended just outside of an unused attic space.

Bonar listened intently outside the door whilst my frustration increased. Not only did he refuse me the chance to contact him with his never ending momentum, now he ventured into an area that I could not! With a faint smile above his squarely trimmed beard, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Odd, I could have sworn that door hadn't been oiled for years.

Much to the relief of my ever curious nature, he did not shut it behind him. I had a poor view, but it would suffice for the moment. He turned to address the wall to his right, just beyond my line of sight.

"Hello girls!" He exclaimed with an almost fatherly affection.

"Papa Giry!" Came a childish squeak of warm surprise.

I was a bit surprised myself. Not by the affection of a young girl, who embraced him despite the fact that she was obviously not one of his own. That sort of thing would have solicited absolutely no reaction at all from anyone who had spent five minutes in the man's company. His wife's position as head ballet mistress seemed to grant him a guaranteed familial bond with everything that pranced about in toe shoes. Indeed, 'Papa Giry', as his moniker suggested, was a paternal figure to all in the Populaire.

My surprise was for the little body that propelled itself into his open arms.

Christine. 'The weeping girl', as I had mentally christened her.

I still felt lingering traces of attachment to the child, remnants of her first night here. I felt a twinge of irritation slide up next to my sympathy. It had been so long since I had indulged in such deep emotions towards another human being. Why did she affect me so?

I hurriedly buried the thought. I did not care to probe it any deeper, lest it provide an answer to my question. It would be best to cleanly sever all such sentiments for her as quickly as I could. Life had taught me that I was treading in dangerous water by allowing my sympathy to run rampant. I would give her a song, as I had resolved earlier in the week. That would give her some measure of comfort and free me of this irrational need to console her.

"Tonight," I decided firmly. "I will go to her tonight."

I drummed my fingers on the rough wool of my trousers as I waited for the two girls to leave. Bonar exchanged the usual greetings with them both and remarked on the ceiling. I strained to see what he found so unique.

A mural of angels now adorned the chalky plaster. The shading was shoddy at best, and the perspective clearly lacked skill, but some of the detail was quite exquisite. It vaguely reminded me of the angels of the Italian renaissance, but mixed with another influence that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Spanish perhaps?

It mattered little, as the children had finally left us alone. Bonar stood still, an unusual occurrence for the head of the matinence staff, and examined the painting with an air of near parental pride.

Perhaps today I would finally manage to startle the man today.

* * *

**Leah**

After Tio Giry (I could never quite bring myself to call any man father) had said goodbye, Tina and I sought out the dormitories in the empty quiet of the theater during break. Most of the girls had left the night before, bound for home and the welcoming arms of their families.

None of them would ever truly grasp the magnitude of that blessing.

Even Christine would soon be gone, leaving tomorrow morning for her guardian's flat. Tina often spoke fondly of this Mama Valerius. Her husband, a minor nobility of some sort, had given Gustave Daae his patronage and had given Tina professional voice lessons. His wife had indulged her with an excellent ballet tutor, doting on the girl as if Tina were the daughter she never had.

I closed the door of our little room behind me before I asked her, "Tina, why did you join the corps?"

"What?"

"I mean, why didn't you audition for the chorus? I've heard you sing, and your voice is further along than your feet. Why didn't you keep singing?"

"Well that's not fair! You have heard me sing, but I've never heard you!"

I smiled at her silly attempt to avoid the question.

"I will sing you to sleep sometime. But I don't think you'll ask me to do it more than once."

"I don't think so."

"Nos Verrons, Tinita. But you still haven't answered my question. Why did you stop singing?"

She gave me a sad little smile, and a soft sigh accompanied her answer. "My music was Papa's. And his music was mine. Oh, that didn't come out right. Do you understand?" She gazed up hopefully at me.

"I think so, hermana. I think so." Jealousy once again streaked through my body. How often I had wished that my family would share my passion!

True, Abuela had taught me to sing. She tried to teach me at least. A faint warmth ghosted across my aching breast at the humorous memory.

But no one, not even Henry, enjoyed dance. It had been the one thing that none of them understood. Ironically, it was the very thing that separated me from them.

Just then, Beth and Meg burst into the room.

"Leah! What are you doing?" Cried Beth with a tone of utter dismay, holding a small bouquet of white daisies.

"What do you mean 'what am I doing'?" I asked, completely mystified. She set the daisies in the cracked pitcher on my washstand.

"Don't you know what time it is?" Piped little Meg, her clothing disheveled from their apparent haste to reach me.

"Of course I know what time it is. I can tell time you know." I glanced over at our brass clock. "Its two forty-six in the afternoon. Is that the reason you came running in here? To make sure that I can still tell time?"

Christine giggled.

Meg goggled at me in a manner normally reserved for those possessing a fifth limb in the middle of their forehead.

"Did you forget what today is?" Exclaimed Beth.

Today … Wednesday … I had shown Christine the paintings, was there something else? A vague memory tickled the back of my consciousness, irritating me to no end. There was something, I knew there was som-

"The gala!" Meg nearly shrieked in impatience.

I gasped audibly. I had entirely forgotten about that! There was so little time to ready myself!

Beth, being the beautiful creature that she was, seemed to hear my unspoken alarm.

"Don't worry dear, we'll help you. You'll be a charming _Señora_ when I'm through!" Her tongue clumsily tripped over the foreign title.

Beth had been attempting to learn a little of my native tongue in an effort to make me more at home. She had told me that she wanted to learn for academic reasons as well. At first I didn't believe that she, or anyone else for that matter, would truly wish to study the dialect. Hadn't my mother said that it was uncivilized and rude?

In the end, she had been forced to exhibit her collection of second hand books. Several were in Italian and English, she proudly pointed out to me. I had been surprised to learn that she was a great lover of languages, as well as books. She maintained that she was eager to add another language to her repertoire.

Could my mother have been mistaken? Or had she lied to me? But why? What ever her strange motivation had been, Beth was with me now. I had flushed with embarrassment and stammered something about my atrocious abilities with conjugation. And as she had seemed to be so earnest, I apologized and promised to try.

Apparently, I was not much of a teacher.

Despite her rush to disrobe me, I found myself amused by the mistake. "No Beth, I am not a Señora! I am not married yet."

All four of us shared a little laugh, even Beth, who was unbuttoning my lightly striped house dress. As the blue fabric began to loosen about my chest, I informed her that I was perfectly capable of undressing by myself.

Beth simply continued her attentions to the back of my dress.

"But you must admit, _Señor_, its much easier with a little help!" She bantered gaily.

I chortled in the back of my throat.

"You may be right, but I am most definitely _not_ a man. It's Señorita, Beth. Señorita."

"Oh dear."

* * *

**Later that evening…**

The massive house loomed above us sternly.

Its windows were gaping, empty eyes. The harsh light poured out of them seemed to reproach me for daring to bare my lie to the world.

"Leah Iglesias is not a lie." I instructed myself firmly. "She is the only Leah that exists now. Leah de Castillo is dead. Just enjoy the life you are living and stop thinking about the past!"

My train of thought was broken when my delicate slipper began to slip on the long ascent to the mansion du Lulasa. The count's strong arm steadied my balance, and I smiled up at his considerate chivalry. He was quite handsome in his crisp suit and white gloves.

His cool, gentle eyes were an eggshell blue that shone out against the darkness of the night sky. The lamplight that streamed out of the imposing home illuminated his corn silk hair, which was pulled back into an elegant tail.

The sight was not hard on the eyes.

I kept reminding myself that this man was escorting me to my first dance. I, Leah, would attend a dance tonight! I vaguely wished that mama could see me, but immediately dismissed the thought. I would not allow the past to haunt the here and now. I was walking on air, my pale cream glove resting delicately atop his dark sleeve. The gesture was for decorum's sake as well as for support on the slippery granite steps that led up to the main house.

The slick state of the stone was due to a light rainstorm that had watered Paris late into the afternoon. It had begun only minutes after Beth had disrobed me, continuing until just an hour before the De Chaney carriage had arrived at the entrance to the Garnier. Beth had been right about one thing, I felt like a beautiful Señorita.

It had taken several hours of intense labor, quite a bit of lost breathing room, and a singed curl, but Beth was a sorceress. I could feel my partner's eyes lightly appraising me. For the first time, it felt like there was something to appraise.

My hair had been painstakingly curled with Beth's hot iron, which was routinely heated in the minute stove that occupied our room. Every strand was carefully arranged to perch atop my head in a deep chocolate sculpture. Some of Beth's daisies graced the intricate creation.

I was so glad that Abuela had an impeccable taste in clothing. She had sent something for every occasion in those hulking leather trunks, and this was no exception. The pale blue silk caressed my torso snugly, hugging my hips before flaring out for a full skirt. The fancy undergarments that brushed against my legs were hidden by a sea of fragile lace that swished faintly with every step. The neck line was rather low, a surprise when considering abuela's generally prim and proper attitude towards such things. My shoulders were barely covered by the ruffled sleeves. To finish the brilliant creation, the rest of Beth's flowers adorned my arms in woven ribbons and draped down my left hip.

I felt like a real Donna. No, tonight I was the queen herself.

It's hard to remember specific details of the night. The hours flew past me in a rush of color and light and sound. Only one sliver of the evening was clear.

I had been terrified when I heard the band take up a waltz tempo. I had no idea how to do this! I couldn't bear to humiliate Philippe by stepping on his toes. I had attempted to feign weariness, but the dear man had seen right through my falsehood. After discreetly prying the secret out of me, he had a tiny laugh at my expense. The look on my face stilled him at once, and he had offered me his arm despite my protests, promising to teach me. Mortified, I shuffled out onto the brilliantly lit dance floor behind him. I wanted to sink into the earth.

But Philippe soon stilled my foolish fears. After a few awkward revolutions, I began to catch on. Debonair as ever, he pulled me into the rhythm and closer to his body.

In that moment, time gave us a fraction of a pause. Everything simply ceased. There was no music, no laughter, no lights, no one else in the room. For that spit second, there was only the warm strength of his arm around me and his smiling face.

Time snapped back, and the night continued in the same joyous blur. It was very late when Philippe returned me to the Opera house, and lightly kissed my cheek before departing to his dark carriage. I felt like I could fly, tired, tongue tied, and happy.

I couldn't wait to tell the girls.

* * *

**Eric**

I felt strangely nervous.

It shouldn't have concerned me so. It was one little lullaby, one little spell for a child who still wanted badly to believe in magic and angels. The twittering of my inner organs was a sure sign that I had already allowed these emotions to continue for far too long. My feelings for the girl had only increased, and I had to end it before I put my self in danger.

Creeping quietly up to my newly devised hole, carefully peered out of Christine's bedroom wall. God had seen fit to favor me for once. She was alone, reading one of her roommate's leather bound books under the blankets of their bed.

It was now or never.

As softly as I was able, I began to hum the melody of the quiet tune. It took her a little while to perceive my gift, but at first she seemed nearly unfazed. A look of confusion was next, quickly replaced by one of suspicion, and followed by a bright glow of living hope. Her eyes grew wide with wonder as I finally painted the background of my melody with the colors of words.

_All the winds are sleeping,  
O're the sea at rest._

I had chosen this song for its slow, soothing tempo and swelling dynamics. Each line's crescendo and decrescendo was like the rippling waves of the sea. Little Christine stood like a statue as a grin eased its way into her sweet dimples. She was testing the waters of the music, touching her toes around the edges of my calming sea.

_Cooling shadows of evening,  
Fall from the soft gray west._

She took the first step into the salt water. Each held note swayed in the air like a gently rocking boat.

_Luna hangs half hidden,  
While above her head,_

This song had originally been a duet, so I took the silky high note at the end of the phrase, stretching it and enjoying its flavor as I drew it out. It had been so long, years in fact, since I had had an audience. She was ankle deep now, obviously pleased and poised for an appearance of the divine in the mundane dormitories of the Garnier Opera House. I was savoring the sensation of holding an audience completely captive, having forgotten just how empowering it could be. I tenderly wrapped her naive mind in the deep comforting arms of the song. It was as if I was truly holding her, and not merely deluding her mind with my bittersweet gift.

_Sails a cloud, a dreaming,  
Over the watery bed._

Hanging the last note out in the air, I quieted gradually until no human ear could perceive my voice. Little Christine blinked endearingly, as if waking from a pleasant dream. She looked about expectantly. I should have left then and there.

"Angel? Is that you?" She barely whispered, her lips quivering with hope.

"Hello?" She seemed to reach on tiptoes for a hint of my voice.

I knew that I would regret this someday.

* * *

**Leah**

My exhausted legs were like wood stumps as they carried me up the narrow stairway.

The glorious gown was hiked up above my knees in a most unladylike fashion, but I was not about to ruin the heavenly thing. I arrived in the dormitories at long last and scanned under the doors for signs of light. I noiselessly passed Beth and Meg's room which was dark and silent, save the light snores of one young Giry sister. I paused at the threshold of my bedroom.

"That's odd." I thought to myself upon seeing the orange glow around the doorframe.

Perhaps Tina had stayed up to see me come back. That would be like her, the sweet child. I retrieved my key and unlocked the heavy door. Stepping in, I found my hermana standing in the middle of the small room. She was staring blankly at the ceiling with a look of abject elation.

Very strange.

"Tinita? What are you doing?"

She gave a little jump at the sound of my voice, obviously having been oblivious to the opened door.

"Leah! Ooh, you frightened me!" Her face was flushed, and her eyes were far, far away from the dormitories.

"I'm sorry hermana, I didn't mean to startle you so. What were you doing there?"

She glanced about, as though she was hiding a special secret. "It was the angel of music." She whispered in a tone of awe.

She must have been sleepwalking again, I decided. Relieved at finding her strange state to be no more than a dream, I began to undress. We idly chatted about the angel of music as I reluctantly replaced the gown in the armoire. She passionately denied having fallen asleep, and I let the topic fall whilst removing the wilting daisies from their various roosts. My hair begged to be free of the pins that dotted my tired head. I obliged eagerly.

At long last, I was free of my sadistic corset, and flopped unceremoniously on the bed. Wiggling over next to the wall, I motioned for the little insomniac to come and curl up with me. She came drowsily, puffing several times before managing to blow out the lamp before joining me. She fell against me like a limp sack. She huddled up against me with her back curved into the line of my stomach as I wedged my body inbetween the wall and an upright pillow. I supported my back with another pillow, and settled into a half sitting position. I cradled her tired head in the embrace of my arms, and she wrapped her little arms around one of mine.

Several minutes of warm silence passed before Tina spoke up in a small, sleepy voice.

"Leah, sing me to sleep?" You promised."

"I suppose I did." I resigned myself to do as she asked. I was not proud of my voice and I disliked singing for anyone but myself. "Let me think a moment."

"I think you'll like this Tina. Its something my grandmother used to sing for me."

I drew in a breath and began quietly, several steps lower than Abuela had used to sing it.

_Pregúntale á las estrellas,  
Si no de noche me ven llorar_ Tina's breathing began to grow more even.

_Pregúntales si no busco,  
Para adorarte la soledad_

Her nodding head leaned deeper into my arm as I slowly rubbed her back.

_Pregúntale al manso rio,  
Si el llanto mio no vé correr,_

I felt my own eyes grow heavy with the late hour and the earlier excitement.

_Pregúntale á todo el mundo  
Si no es profundo mi padecer._

I pulled the covers up over us both, and gave into my exauhsted body's desire for sleep.

Had I known who was watching, I might have been less eager to close my eyes.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Heads up guys! Next chapter is the big first meeting between Leah and a certain someone… I wonder who? I wanted to find an original way of introducing them, and I think I've succeeded. I guess you'll have to wait and tell me what you think. Tonight I'm feeling really generous, so I'll even hint at chapter thirty one. It's a big turning point, and Leah's whole world is going to be turned on its head in a way that NO ONE is going to figure out! Muah ha ha! The ants, they returneth!

According to my voice teacher (who studied opera professionally) coloratura is the formal name for the voice part of a first soprano. Some people have been confusing it with other musical terms, and I thought I oughta explain why Leah remarks that Christine is a coloratura.

The song 'Pregúntale a Las Estrellas' is a really beautiful Spanish song. Translated, it is called 'Go Ask It of the Stars'. This song will probably show up in several other chapters. I have only used the first part of it in this chapter, and here's the translation:

_Go ask of the high stars gleaming,  
If my tears fall not throughout the night.  
Go ask if I seek not dreaming,  
For thee till the dawn burns bright.  
Go ask of the murmuring streamlet,  
If my pale shadowy form goes by.  
Go ask it of all creation,  
If thou art not, love, my soul's one cry._

As for M Giry's name, Bonar is a French name that means 'the gentle one'. As a general rule, the names of characters in anything I write tend to have meanings that are important to the story. For instance, several people have asked me why 'my' Eric is spelled with a 'c' instead of a 'k'. There are two reasons, but one of them is the meaning behind each of the names. (I research these things WAY too thoroughly. :D) Erik means 'Ruler of the people', whereas Eric means 'ever powerful'. I thought the second one was more appropriate, and I hope you'll understand why by the end of the story.

Oh, and the song Eric sang is a really beautiful piece that a friend and I did as a duet this year.

* * *

**Responses:**

**Fish:** How is the puppy? I hope your computer heals. Much love as ever.

**Avid:** Yay, you're back. It must be my cooking… (she wanders off in the vague direction of the kitchen)

**JPT: **Well, I hope you enjoyed more of Eric's little coup. I hope the 'date' came off decently. And I agree about guessing, that's half the fun of any story. Don't worry, you'll be guessing till the very end.


	30. If To Heaven's Heights I Fly

**

* * *

Chapter Thirty: If To Heaven's Heights I Fly

* * *

**

**Leah**

In his arms, she flew on wings of love.

"Is that what I looked like last night?" I wondered to myself.

From my accustomed seat in box five, I watched the action on stage with a dreamy fascination. During the break, Beth had taken to these secretive meetings with her beau quite frequently. Despite her mother's hawk-like watch, my friend had finally found love. They came to the quiet stage whenever they could for several hours of romantic dancing.

One would think that years of dance training would drain all the joy out of such an activity. But then 'one' would obviously not be a dancer.

Beth and Beval seemed to be dancing on air.

I felt a bit guilty for spying on them, but the dormitories were empty and uninviting. With Christine gone and Meg out with her parents, the hallways of the Opera Garnier were as silent as a tomb. Besides, it was a chance for drawing that was too good to ignore. I had done some of my best sketches during these afternoon trysts of theirs.

My favorite sketch had been scratched out while they had been resting one afternoon. They only dared to light a few small lamps on the edge of the stage when they came, so the picture was sharply defined by the light and shadow. Sifting through the pages of my sketchbook, I found the special piece.

I felt a small swell of pride as I swept my eyes over the dark strokes of charcoal. They were sitting together quietly, leaning against one of the larger props on the edge of the wings. Beth's dark skirts spread out on the floor around them both as she rested her head on his shoulder. The warmth of his arm around her, the trusting curve of her neck, every angle spoke of comfort and affection. With a convoluted pang of emotions, I gently closed the cover of my book.

I often wondered what it would be like. I had never been in love. Oh, Philippe was a perfect gentleman, but I knew that I was only a passing affair for him. It would be utter foolishness to love a man who would leave eventually. He was a young, adventurous nobleman and I was a student of the National Academy of Ballet. The relationship we shared was common place and our roles already predetermined.

But I was still determined to enjoy it for as long as it lasted. And I did. He was wonderful company, a real gentleman. He was a kind man with a fantastic sense of humor. Best of all, he defied the average attitude of a nobleman. He treated me with respect, as though I were an intelligent equal and not just another opera rat. He made it difficult not to care for him. But I had learned to be content with that, and perhaps I would find someone of my own class someday.

I could only hope for someone as wonderful as Beval Monet. Beth had been mooning over him for as long as I had known her, and no one could really find fault with her for it. He was graceful and talented, second only to Ingvar Armo, and he was a hard worker with a cheerful attitude. True, Beth's beau wasn't much of 'a looker' as Hortense had once so delicately put it, but Beth didn't seem to mind. Whenever teased about him, she simply muttered something about love being blind.

It was not long until they happily drifted backstage, leaving me alone in the dark with my lonely thoughts.

At least for a few minutes.

There was a quiet knocking at the door of the box, followed by a faint light and a familiar head. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"Henry!" I ran with all my strength into his open arms. It seemed like ages instead of weeks since I had last seen him.

"Izzy!" He cried as I pounced on him. He swung me around in the open space of the hallway and my black fingers left smudges of charcoal on the snowy white of his crisp shirt. My brother's love filled my heart to overflowing.

But the happiness was not to last.

* * *

**Later that night…**

**Eric**

My plans were unfurling like a blooming rose.

There was a new spark in my step as I walked away from my view of the manager's office. Bonar had preformed his duties perfectly, feigning surprise and horror at all the right times. The man should have been a professional actor. He had handed off my note with ease. I could still remember every line.

_My dearest Poligany,_

_I had hoped to begin this little relationship of ours with a greater spirit of cooperation. Or perhaps I ought to say 'renew' our relationship. However, I was sadly disappointed in you my old friend. I do hope my instructions were clear when we spoke earlier. But perhaps your memory is fading in your old age. I wouldn't know much about that though, as I never grew to such a ripe old age. Forty two years is such a very short time._

_Oh, you'll have to excuse me. Even in my present state of limbo, it seems I am still a bit bitter about that whole sordid affair of my death. But again, I shall attempt to start afresh with you. No sense in dredging up water that's already under the proverbial bridge. That is, unless you are disinclined to comply with my requests. In that case, I fear we shall have to relive the past. As I already informed you my dear partner, my reach does indeed extend into the land of the living. You see, I am just as capable of ending a life as you were when you picked up that gun all those years ago. Therefore, I suggest you comply with my business plans as you did when I was alive, or I shall be forced to recreate history. _

_And your lovely daughter will be the first to reminisce with me. She _would_ look stunning with a pair of angel's wings._

_Your humble partner, in this life and the next,_

_A Ghost_

It was a perfect scheme.

Laurent's combination of deep guilt and a superstitious nature made him the perfect target for my manipulations. Earlier in his career, Laurent Poligany had killed his partner. They had been selected to manage the Garnier when construction began, but when work halted they had used their persuasive skills to mastermind a smuggling ring on the side. They had even used the unfinished opera house as a base for their shipments, constructing extra tunnels in the walls for easier concealment. Affluent and stupid, they were little different than any of their peers at the time. But an important narcotics deal had gone terribly wrong, and Poligany had shot his partner in a drunken rage.

Being a good, penitent Catholic, Laurent had carried the guilt of his act for years despite confession. And now, I was graciously giving him a way to relieve it. The way I saw it, we were both getting something out of my little arrangement.

A sudden sound caught my interest.

A guttural yell, followed by a crash.

"The dormitories" I mused. As I was headed in that direction anyway, I decided to investigate.

This particular tunnel was full of pinpricks of light, peepholes into each room that was built against this wall. It was very familiar to me, as this was my main route from the upper layers of the Garnier down to my home. But only one room's light was strong. The glow of the other rooms must have come from the streetlamps, as it was late at night.

"It's Christine's room." I whispered under my breath.

I should have kept walking. Despite all my attempts, singing the child to sleep had only made her more dear to me. Worst of all, she had made 'her angel' promise never to leave her. I would never escape. I felt trapped between my intellect and my emotions, and it was obvious which one was winning.

So I succumbed, stooping a bit to peer inside and discover the source of the commotion. My heart beat faster as I wondered if the child could be injured.

The sight that greeted me was not at all what I had expected.

The room held two tense young women in their nightshifts. Neither was Christine, I was relieved to note. I was about to continue my walk when I noticed a glimmering light reflecting from the floor. A wash pitcher lay in several pieces on the floor. That must have been the cause of the crash. But what of the scream?

Interested, I scanned my memories for names to pair with the faces, wondering why these two would be so violent. One of Bonar's girls, and Christine's bedmate. Leah, wasn't it? I had never observed aggression from either of them. Now I was paying attention, my curiosity in full swing.

"How could they? They made me a promise!" Roared the younger girl.

The force of her voice shocked me. I had not expected such a low, menacing tone to come from such a thin little frame.

She paced the short length of the room in a way that reminded me of my days with the gypsies. I had only seen that attitude once before, from the lions as they paced their cages at night. I shuddered at the memory. She slunk from one end of the room to the other with straight-angled shoulders and tightly balled fists.

Bethany sat on the bed, obviously concerned but unsure of what to do. She also appeared to be a bit frightened, and I saw a glimmer in her eye that reflected a small boy of long ago. She too, it seemed, was uneasy about being caged with a dangerous cat.

"Leah! Please dear, stop that pacing. You're going to wear a groove in the floor." She tried to laugh weakly at her own quip, but failed miserably.

Leah threw up her hands in exasperation and turned to face the girl on her bed.

"I can't help it!" She returned to her pacing.

"They left me Beth! They abandoned me! My own family. The first chance they get, they move back without me. They are gone!" She was gesturing wildly with her hands.

She turned about in her track, glaring vacantly at the wall for an instant. For the first time in years, I felt a shiver of something that bordered on fear running down my spine. She seemed to be looking right at me, and her eyes … her eyes saw deep into my soul. They were full of a dangerous passion, one that threatened to overflow her trembling body, yet at the same time cold and detached, achingly filled with a feral glow of anger.

"Please try to calm down. You're going to make yourself ill." Bethany murmured with a hint of worry in her voice.

With a furious grunt, Leah spun around to face her, breaking our non-existent eye contact. I was almost relieved.

"Calm down? Calm down? My mother runs away with her new beau and gets married, my grandparents leave the country with her, and you expect me to remain calm?" Her voice rose with every question mark.

Beth stood to comfort her, but Leah spun away to face the window. She braced herself against the window with her hands on the sill, and spoke in a bare whisper.

"Calm? I am alone, Beth. Alone." Though her voice was low, all her emotion remained just as strong.

Each word was hollow, like a stone dropped in an empty well.

* * *

**Leah**

I could feel Beth's eyes on the back of my neck, but I did not care.

"Calm? I am alone, Beth."

"_Alone."_

All I felt was anger. Burning, terrible, all consuming anger. Anger for my mother. Anger for her husband, a father that I had longed for since birth and I would never know. Anger for my abuelos, for taking advantage of the politics of the marriage and returning to their hacienda in Spain. Anger for the whole world. I had been betrayed and left alone. No one would be there to take care of me from afar. No one would send me secret roses. No one would ever come to see me. I was lost, my rudder was broken and my sails limp.

I should have been sad, hurt, or in pain, but I couldn't bring myself to allow those emotions to touch me. They were too dangerous, too easy to turn to tears. Anger was safe by comparison. I felt strong, even while this emptiness ate away at my insides like heaven's plague of locust. Anger was powerful, and that was all I could hang on to.

Apparently Beth was also aware of this, for her next words were not those of comfort, but exasperation.

"Blast Leah! You are NOT alone! What am I? Chopped liver? And what of your brother? Didn't you say that he planned to remain in France? You are not adrift at sea, you fool. You are among family here too."

I turned to return fire on her heated words, but was stopped by the quiet sadness of her face. She was on the verge of pain, and I was the cause. I felt my rage grow dim and gray in the pit of my stomach.

I turned back to the window, wrapping my arms around myself and vacantly gazing at the distant forms of late night revelers in the street. I couldn't bear to see that expression on the face of the woman I would gladly call my sister. Indeed, she was my hermana in all but name. I had gone so far as to tell her the real story of my past.

She was right, and I knew it, but that did little to ease the pain in my gut. How was I to keep living, knowing that the most important people in my life had completely discarded me like a piece of trash?

"I'm sorry Beth." I could barely whisper, leaning my head against the cool glass. "I'm sorry."

I would not cry. I would not! Even if she would never see or care, I would make mama proud of me. I allowed emptiness to fill my inner cavities, a cold, hard determination that stilled my hot tears before they even began.

More silence followed. The only sound in the room was the gradually slowing tempo of our breathing.

In a soft, cautious movement, Beth finally broke the stillness. She slipped her arms around my own, and rested her cheek on the top of my head, taking advantage of her height.

"I should not have raised my voice." She burbled softly.

I began to speak, but was cut off.

"All is forgiven. For both of us, oui?" I nodded my head, struggling to cling to that strong, freezing anchor in my mind.

"You know, I forgot something before." She confided. "There is another who stands with you. The Lord."

I didn't know what to say. I was still unsure about this loving, intimate portrait of God that she painted. And the events of the day had done nothing to improve my candor for him.

"If God is with me, then why did he send my family away?"

"Oh, my little _hermano_." She sighed. "He didn't send them away. He let them leave. God does not make choices for us."

I didn't have the heart to tell her that she had just called me her brother.

"That doesn't make it hurt any less."

"I know, I know. He never said we would understand all of the difficult passages of life. He only said that he would stand with us through every moment, good and bad. I find that knowing he is near takes a little of the sting away. You can feel that too, you know."

"I know." I answered simply. I was still so confused by my own emotions. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of a razor.

Beth let the matter drop, and began to sing a quiet tune instead. It was comforting, but the lyrics only served to further convolute my thoughts.

_If to heaven's heights I fly,  
You will stay close by me.  
Or in death's dark shadows lie,  
You are there beside me.  
If I flee on morning's wings,  
Far across the gray sea,  
Even there your hand will guide.  
Your right hand will lead me._

"Whatever you choose, Leah, I will always be here. I am not going to leave you."

"Thank you. That means more than I can say." I bumbled as my breath left a white fog on the cold windowpane.

"Goodnight dear." She said awkwardly, for what else was left to say?

"Sleep well." I returned vacantly.

I only half heard the door close behind me, still watching the stray party goers stumble about the street drunkenly. But my mind was far away from the dim streets of Paris. I felt even more confused than before.

What did I believe? Should I hate God, or let him comfort me? Could I let go of my doubts? Would this pain ever stop? Could I ever let go? What was supposed to happen next? Where was I to go from here?

I needed to get out of that room. I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I had to do something, had to take my mind off of all the questions I couldn't answer. It was difficult to decipher just what I was feeling.

* * *

**Eric**

I had never felt this way before.

She aggravated me. She fascinated me. With out realizing what I was doing, I had been drawn into her peculiar mystery. I harbored an intense need to understand her, and I was infuriated that anyone could force me into such a state.

She had only looked my way for an instant, but that instant had been as damaging as the hours of singing to Christine. Both of them had a hook latched deep inside me that I could not remove. And I faintly wondered if I even cared.

Seeing the depths of her soul bared open in those sharp gray eyes had roused my curious nature. What emotion had that been? Hate, fear, sadness … emptiness? Years of observing people from afar had taught me to read even the faintest facial expressions, but for the life of me I could not place that look. What strange thoughts lingered inside her head? What was this loss she spoke of?

Never before had I wanted to understand someone as I did this girl. I had analyzed the emotions and thoughts of many individuals, but always with a reason. I had used my findings to manipulate them as I desired and nothing more. But somehow she was different. I felt no urge to view her as a tool, to bend her to facilitate my plans. She was completely useless to me, yet I wanted to understand.

I wanted to take her apart and examine the things that made her tick. I wanted to grasp the root of what motivated her in life. Why was I so engrossed by her? Why should I care?

A movement from the window halted the vicious cycle of my thoughts.

I had no idea how long she had stood there after Mademoiselle Giry quitted the room, but it must have been decent length of time, for she appeared stiff.

Her movements were determined, as she glided to the wardrobe and removed several articles. I was startled as she began to remove her nightshift, and torn between giving her a bit of modesty or enjoying the sight. My body easily won the fight, and I examined her form with an appreciative eye as she changed into a tattered blouse and a pair of men's trousers. She was quite thin, a trait that most of society found rather unattractive. I, on the other hand, was slightly less inclined towards the heavyset, so the sight was even more appealing. Her small bosom and the slight curves of her buttocks were like ripening fruit.

While I did welcome the view, she was nothing truly spectacular. I occasionally used my hidden vantage points for such purposes, so the prospect was not a foreign one. What was rather odd was the fact that part of my mind was still gnawing away at the enigma of her driving forces. What caused her to be excited? What brought her sorrow? What made her laugh?

"Who are you?" I silently queried.

I had never before thought to ask that question in such a context. How would she answer if I did? How would anyone respond to such a subject? What reply could fully satisfy it?

How would I answer?

I refused to confront that inquiry, labeling it rhetorical as Leah made for the door.

I rushed silently to my passage near the hallway just in time to see her turn the corner into the stairwell. Much to my chagrin, she headed to the little attic above the subscriber's rotunda which I had privately dubbed the little Sistine.

As I followed her, I made a mental note to extend that passage into the walls of the circular room. I very much doubted that I would have much luck convincing Bonar to provide the muscle for such a task, though I would have rather had it that way. The man had been quite helpful during my original adaptations to the earlier smuggling tunnels, providing me with access to nearly every room in the building. But back then he had been doing his brother a favor, and I feared that my latest scheme had drained the last dregs of that little arrangement. Even his brother's debt could only ensnare his loyalty for so long.

But no amount of wishing would alter the secret hallway tonight. I could only hope that she would leave the door open.

But I had no such luck. She slipped the knob quietly back into its place in the door frame. I could hear her movements inside, but only a flickering light at the keyhole gave any visual clue.

After several minutes of a strange, rhythmic noise inside, I decided to take a risk, sliding open the well-concealed panel in the wall. The faint sounds grew stronger as I crept up to the key hole.

Fencing. The girl was fencing. That was a novel sight, even for one as widely versed as myself. Her form was fairly impressive, if a bit underdeveloped. She grunted with exertion while dueling an invisible adversary. I had done the same thing many times before. A small fission of unexpected emotion shot through me.

Where I would have expected sympathy similar to what I felt for Christine, Leah evoked a sense of mutual understanding. Strange, considering so much of her remained mysterious to me.

Hours later, she slumped down on a worn piano bench. Her face was damp with perspiration. The few strands of hair that escaped her black snood were plastered to her skin and her thin blouse clung snugly to each of her slight curves. The light of a nearing sunrise served as picturesque backlighting as she rested her elbows on her knees. Her head hung down, heavy with exhaustion. She fidgeted a little, appearing somehow indecisive. But indecisive about what?

After a few moments, I received the answer to one of my many question.

She lowered herself to her knees on the rough wooden floor, clasping her hands in her lap and bowing her head.

"God, are you there?"

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **Sorry about the wait, this chapter was hard to write. I wanted to set the scene for Leah's new outlook on faith. I also wanted Eric to really SEE Leah for the first time. Not as a pretty face and a female body, or a backdrop for Christine, but another human being. As you can kind of tell, he doesn't really see anybody besides himself as human, as a person with feelings and a life story. Right now he kind of just sees everyone only as they relate to himself, as enemies or tools. Even his current feelings for Christine are merely a projection of his own feelings of loss, even though he doesn't know it. It was hard to figure out how to begin to alter his perceptions._

_In other breaking news, I've finally got some of my poetry posted on my site at colormegraydeviantartcom (you have to replace the with .)_

_I've decided to postpone Leah's big turning point for a chapter. Sorry, too much left to write before that._

_Beval is a French name which means 'like the wind'. Bevel is also the name of a certain kind of cut that a jeweler uses on a gemstone. I'll let you in on the meaning of Monet a little later. I don't want to spoil the plot. Armo is a Finnish name for 'grace'._

_The song is a slow, simple one. I heard it on a Chris Rice CD, but it's an old folk song. The melody is really haunting and beautiful._

_Did I get you when Eric started off saying "I had never felt this way before"? Did you think he was in love? He's not. I fooled you. Oh, I am devious. Yay.

* * *

_

**Responses: Fish:** Sorry, I haven't gotten around to readdressing Ch.29 and all its errors yet. I hope today (or tonight as the case may be) finds you happier and in better mental health. :D Those classes sound taxing. How did they go? How is da puppy? And is your computer less sick? Hope this chapter finds you less stressed. Much love.

**Avid:** Thanks as always for reviewing! I hope I'm not on your bad author list now after not updating for a few days.

**JPT:** Oh, I've really been a bad person this chapter. I didn't answer your questions, and worse, no meeting. Please don't hate me cause I'm slow:D I'll try to make it up to you with writing more of these long chapters.

**Bananas in Pajamas:** ¿Hablas Español? I'm glad you liked it. Your review made me blush profusely. :D I must give credit where credit is due though, as the piece would not be half so good without my wonderful beta fish, allegratree.

**ALC:** I apologize for not responding sooner. I would be happy to help, at least for the next month or so. My life's hectic level is going to shoot through the roof at the end of June, so I may not be able to continue my duties at that time. But for now I'm all yours. I don't have IM or anything, but my e-mail is under my profile on this site. Hope to be of service!

**phtmangl1013:** Another newbie! Huzzah. (She hands you a slice of chocolate cheesecake) Wait no more.


	31. Home and Hearth

**

* * *

Chapter Thirty One: Home and Hearth

* * *

**

**Leah**

The next few days passed by me like fluttering wings.

So much had changed in one night. _I_ had changed, more than I had ever thought possible.

The sting of betrayal lingered in my blood like a dull poison, but the result of my prayers gave me an inexplicable sense of hope. Not hope for their return. No, there was no hope of that, for Henry had made their plans quite clear. But God must have known how badly this would injure me, for Henry had remained in Paris with me.

He told me that he couldn't leave me, and that he loved his career to much to end it. The navy had been very good to him. He had attained a favorable rank in spite of his youth, and hoped to take part in an official expedition in a few years. He did not speak of his lady love, but I knew that her presence did nothing to deter him from Paris.

What ever his reasons, I was glad to know that he would stay. He was a bright light in the darkness of my loss. Had he left as well, I would have been broken beyond repair.

No, my hope was for the future and for the God I had finally spoken with.

It had not been a miraculous connection. There were no bright lights, no visions of paradise, no booming voices. Just a tired girl and a tender God, listening as I spilled out all the pain and anger in my heart, all my doubts and fears. And then there was a sense of … comfort, a sense of no longer being alone. There were no words that could explain the quiet presence that I felt.

I only knew that nothing had ever come close to this, no moment in my short life could rival that special second where I had known that someone was listening. There were only a handful of experiences that were anything like it, albeit only a faint shadows of the reality.

I had felt it once in Madame Giry's eyes, during my audition when she had sized me up. I had glimpsed it in Henry's smile, in Beth's warm words and in Tina's sweet embrace. It had even been a small part of the imaginary eyes that I had feared on my first night in the opera house. It was that illusively tangible knowledge that someone understood me completely, seeing all that I was.

And it had converted me in the span of a single heartbeat.

But that was not to say that it had healed every wound in my heart. Each of them still smarted painfully, simply less severely than they once had. My pain remained inside like an empty tomb. I had dealt with it the best I could, fighting my invisible opponent for a second time until the fifth peal of church bells, when I slunk towards the dormitories. Exhaustion was a blissful drug, and sleep brought me a temporary absolution.

My sleep was deep and dreamless, consuming me until late in the afternoon. I was wakened by a hilarious sensation and a familiar giggle.

"Wake up sleepy head!" Tinkled Tina as she and Meg attempted to discover where I was ticklish.

I opened my eyes stiffly and grumbled something incoherent, inciting more laughter from Tina and the other occupants of the room. I groggily realized that there were several other bodies present.

"Perhaps we shouldn't have wakened her?" Worried Alana.

"Nonsense, you ninny! She looks like Hell half frozen over! If she'd slept any longer she would have turned into Rip Van Winkle." Amanda exclaimed irreverently.

"She can hear you, you know." Hortense quipped dryly.

"Are you saying that I have facial hair?" I asked in response.

Beth just threw back her head and laughed.

Even though I was only half awake, the reality of what Beth had told me the night before hit me forcefully.

"_You are among family here too." _

The twins' sisterly squabbles, Beth's sweet disposition, Hortense's deadpan sense of humor, and the tickling fingers of Meg and Tina. There was no other place on earth that I would rather be. I had never felt this real, this _right_ before, not even in the company of my biological family. There was an air of complete acceptance that hung heavy in the room. Each of us fit into the other like a perfect piece of a puzzle, and I felt at home in the midst of this jovial chaos.

Yes, this was my home.

**This** was family.

"But seriously Leah, how are you?" Hortense asked me.

"Hmm?"

"Oh don't be such a holdout, Leah! Beth told us about your family." Amanda said.

"Yes, you must be having a terrible go of it. Do you want to talk about it?" Alana inquired with deep concern.

Any sleepiness that had remained in me vanished in an instant. My eyes widened as I silently turned to Beth. Had she told them of my past?

Family or no, they could not know who I had been! I knew that they would not judge me or intentionally betray my confidence, but some of them had a looser hold on their tongue than Beth. I could not risk the world knowing of my past, especially now that Henry was of an eligible age to be married.

A pleading question hung in my stare as I gazed at Beth. What had she said?

"Well, I told them the abbreviated version. No one would really want to hear me ramble on about your first words or your third birthday party." Beth quickly covered.

I smiled in relief. Beth had not let me down after all. She must have told them something vague about my family leaving the country.

"I am adjusting." I admitted. "It will take some time, but I will have God to help me."

Their faces bore identical expressions of amazement and joy, just before I was pounced upon. We found ourselves in a jubilant pile of skirts and arms. They had known of my disbelief and each had urged me to reconsider many times. Now their happiness was boundless, as we clustered together and conversed lightly until dinner time.

After eating, we returned to the dorms to continue our catching up. We read aloud and told stories until late into the night.

* * *

The brass hand of our little clock displayed one in the morning. I had tried to sleep for several hours, but found only restlessness and Tina's quiet breathing. Candle in hand, I returned to the attic in search of something to occupy my distracted mind. 

Closing the door quietly, I set the flickering candle on the worn leather seat of the piano bench. A small crate in the corner held the few items I kept up here, my paints and a single blank canvas. I always kept the room neat, enjoying a tidy space.

"Blast!" I exclaimed out loud. I had forgotten my fencing equipment back in the dormitories. I considered painting for a moment, and decided to take out my supplies. I had several hours to waste. But after opening the lid, I could not continue.

I knelt down by the crate for an endless moment unmoving, my fingertips inches from the surface of a finished canvas. It was my family portrait. Each woman's eyes glared at me with an empty contempt, each iris as blank as the depths of the grave. All the emotion that I had hidden with the girls now poured back into me with surprising force.

Anger remained inside, but much of what I felt was emptiness. I realized that no bandage, no gauze could ever heal my pain. Not exhaustion, not my friends, not even the presence of God. Exercise and family numbed it for a while, and God comforted me in spite of it, but I knew that it would remain for a long time. Yet someday I would be free of it, I decided.

All wounds can be healed, given time and patience.

But every wound leaves a scar.

I finally broke eye contact with the ghosts of my past. I could not paint tonight. Fingering my brushes, I knew that it would be years before I could paint again. The varnish on each brush's wooden stem glimmered brightly in the candlelight, reflecting memories of the day my Abuelo had given them to me.

Tears threatened to spill into my lap. I hastily summoned up my cool, detached resolve of the night before.

"I'll put them away." I explained to the empty room. "I'll just forget about this."

I slipped the horsehair brushes back into their leather case, and laid the case inside the well made box that was carved to hold my paints. The buckles on the exterior of the slim box clicked shut with ease. I gathered the few canvases and the box under my arm and took up the candle holder in order to go back to the dormitories.

I was careful not to wake little Tina as I replaced the latch on the door. She did not stir as I set down the candle and shuffled over to the armoire with my cargo in tow. I pushed each reminder far back into the bottom drawer, accidentally bumping something small and square-ish.

My fingers brushed against the small wooden box, and I retrieved it from the dim depths of the drawer.

The shimmering lid of Abuela's gift frowned at me.

"Why won't you give me any peace?" I spat at it. "Would it be so terrible for me to enjoy the life I have chosen?"

I made to shove it back into the darkness, turning it on its side to fit in next to a canvas. A slight tinkling noise came from inside. I stopped abruptly, replacing it in my lap upside down.

Should I open it? After all, I had no reason to respect her wishes any longer. What was inside? I fingered the key that hung from my neck. No one would know.

Then I saw the inscription on the bottom of the box, etched into the lacquered finish in a delicate flowing script.

_Para la niña quien baila en mi corazon, mi Milagros. _

I quickly thrust it back into the drawer. I would not cry! I called upon the strength that was growing in my breast to chill the heat of my pain, my body shuddering with the struggle.

My mind scrambled for a distraction. Catching a glimpse of my toe shoe, I closed the drawer with silent hurry and snatched up the closest bodice and skirt I could find. It was my favorite practice outfit, I noted as I rummaged about for a clean chemise. I dressed in a rush, once again discarding my night shift in the bottom of the armoire.

Tina twisted restlessly in our bed, tangling the sheets. I cautiously continued to prepare whilst being more wary of waking her. I brushed out my snarled hair and looped the length of it into a fresh snood. With all the tiny black hair-pins in place, I grabbed my toe shoes and the candle. I was headed for the practice stage.

The light of my candle was the only illumination in the great expanse of darkness. I could make out the ambiguous shapes of the seats in the first row. The rafters dangled above me like motionless bats in the night sky as I fastened the ribbons of my toe shoes. Despite the gloomy atmosphere, I was eager to let go of my thoughts and be caught up in the dance.

I dutifully preformed my stretches and warmed up, before beginning. I lifted my form and commenced with the last routine I had learned in class.

I was slowly gliding into the rhythm in my head as my feet remembered their places. Every thought of bandages and wounds dithered away in the face of the music in my mind. Dance occupied me entirely. There was no room for anything else, just the peace of my even breathing.

Here I cavorted about as I never could on stage. Though I loved to perform, though the thunder of applause set my heart beating, I knew that this was my true passion.

I had long ago abandoned the set movements of the routine. My legs glided and leapt. My abdomen bent and pivoted. My arms extended each motion, expressing emotion with every gesture. I poured everything out into my motion.

In the stillness of the candlelight, I felt more alive than I ever could have elsewhere. This was why I had been willing to leave my comfortable life behind. Indeed, the whole world lay far behind me. Stars could have been twinkling under the pale satin of my slippers, for nothing existed here except the release of my energy each time my slippers touched the floor. This was my driving force, a thirst that nothing else could quench.

This was the reason for life.

I had come home.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Please don't shoot me! I apologize for not letting them meet yet, but it couldn't be helped, I swear._

_On the subject of my basis for the story, I have read Leroux, watched the movie, and seen the ALW musical (on Broadway! Squee for Hugh, the sexiest phantom of them all!). I have not read Kay, but am considering doing so sometime in the future. For this story, I am trying to lean more towards Leroux._

_The inscription reads: 'For the little girl who dances in my heart, my Milagros'. Milagros is one of Leah's middle names, and it means miracle.

* * *

_

**Responses: JPT:** Amanda! We have returned to the story line! Joy and rapture! And you got to be irreverent. :D

**BiP:** ¿Le gusta? Out of curiosity, are you a native speaker? I am not very fluent, only three years of high school Spanish. ¿Un capítulo magnífico¡Te Amo! I will do my best to live up to your high expectations. Y si, Eric es un cerdo. But then again, he IS a thirty something year old virgin who has never been kissed.

**Fish:** Graci, as always. You are wonderful and so very helpful. I'm glad the seminars went well, they sound wonderful. Seamus is such an awesome name for a puppy! I hope he gets fatter. :D A spider bit you? AHH! Yuck. I hope you are well!

Yes, I am having a bit of trouble with separating the voices. I'll probably redo those during final editing. I was glad that you thought the emotions were genuine, that's sometimes a problem spot for me.

**Mystery Guest:** You have returned! Cheesecake! (If you haven't guessed by now, cheesecake is the answer to all situations ;D) Your review made me blush profusely, thank you. Yes, he is a bit psychotic. But he's a sexy psycho, so therefore I love him. Do you still have that fish hook in your mouth?


	32. The Loss of Light

**The shameless self-promotion is back. Please don't hurt me, but the poem that this line is from is my favorite piece that I've ever written, and the line was perfect for the title! Here's the excerpt:**

_…The restless symphonies of radiance composed  
Till the loss of light removes all error of emotion  
Lying in the quiet alleyway…

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_

**Chapter Thirty Two: The Loss of Light

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**

**Eric**

"No Laurent! Absolutely not!"

Galen Debbine continued on with his enraged ranting as his partner attempted to stutter a reply.

"Galen, you … you don't understand. I cannot …"

"Yes, yes. You cannot defy the agonized soul of your old partner."

"Then you understand!"

"Laurent! We arrived here at nine o'clock." He strode over to the mantle and pointed to the elaborate china clock. "As you can observe, it is now nearly ten o'clock. You've spent the better part of an hour repeating yourself, man! I don't care how damn superstitious you are. I will not allow you to harm business with your senile delusions!"

"But Galen, …"

"No! I will not agree to this lunacy!"

"Lunacy? Lunacy! How dare you! I am not mad!"

"No? You wish to revive one of the least popular opera's of our time, and at the height of the season no less, and you wish me to believe that you are not mad? Do you have any idea how much we stand to loose?"

"I am perfectly aware of the financial situation, Galen. But we have nothing to fear, I swear it to you. He promised that the theater would thrive as never before! And all we must do is follow his orders." Poligany paced about franticly.

My plan was coming along swimmingly.

"I apologize my friend. I was quite mistaken. You are not mad at all."

"Finally, you see the light!"

"You are not mad, you are insane! You ought to be locked away in a cell of the asylum! Incompetents like you should never be allowed to see the light of day!"

"But Galen, he threatened to …"

"I don't care if he threatened to hang my under-linens upon the opening curtain for all the world to see! I will not allow you to …"

The door slammed behind them as they headed off to announce my choice. They would obey me, whether M Debbine believed in me or not.

I was well prepared for such an occasion.

I perused my unknowing victims from within my dark passages. I knew exactly how to bend Galen to my will. By the end of the morning, he would be as pliable the wet silt that lined the banks of my home.

I hurried ahead, arriving in the practice hall before my newest employees. I saw the hostile pair enter beneath me from my seat behind the back wall. The view was limited to only the front half of the stage, displaying a good number of the house's ballerinas. This would be the first place too hear the announcement of the new opera.

I rarely had a reason to grace this room with my presence, so I had only constructed one vantage point here. But only one was necessary.

Everything I needed was at my fingertips.

I had finished my contraption only the night before. A complicated system of knots and pulleys was attached to a particular section of catwalk, hanging high above the stage. It was controlled by a thick cord that ran above the length of the seating, a mere ten rows of chairs. The strong rope was threaded through each of the four tresses that supported the roof of the hall.

The tail end dangled just above me, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

* * *

**Leah**

It was the perfect opportunity.

Sorelli would never know what hit her!

"I'm sorry about this, Señor Araña." I whispered quietly to my little captive as I edged along the rough wood of the catwalk.

Perfect.

I was directly over her head. But the managers were mounting the stairs of the practice stage, ready to announce their mysterious choice. Perhaps I could wait a few more minutes to enact my revenge.

The general tittering of the students ceased as each girl noticed the important entrance of Debbine and Poligany.

Clearing his throat, Debbine began in his most official voice.

"As you all know," He boomed, "Today I will be announcing the next performance for the Garnier. I am proud to say that our next selection will be … Laurent, what is it?" He muttered as he jabbed his partner in the ribs.

M Poligany seemed to be staring straight at me, his eyes vacant and disbelieving. That was impossible! I knew he shouldn't be able to make out my form from the stage below. What was he looking at?

I was further puzzled as he turned to Galen and gibbered softly, looking very lost.

The both of them glanced up at my hiding place before M Poligany spoke to the waiting audience before him.

"C … Carmen …." He stuttered. "We will be producing Carmen …"

Carmen?

That was one of the most terrible flops in the history of the Garnier! What could all of this mean?

Making sure that no one was looking up, I snuck my hand down to the underside of the plank that I was crouched upon. It was wet!

I recoiled quickly to examine the substance on the tip of my finger.

Paint. Red paint.

What on earth?

I had little time to wonder, for the board beneath me began to sway. Suddenly, everything gave way under me in a tremendous roar.

_And then everything went dark._

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I know the chapter is really short, but at least I finally got around to the big turning point! What do you think? 

Araña – Spider


	33. Darkness of the Soul

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Chapter Thirty Three: Darkness of the Soul

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**

**Leah**

I was swimming in darkness.

The black depths were like the deep trenches of the ocean, the inky liquid of my surroundings seemed almost tangible.

I had no sense of time or direction. I could have been there for a few short moments or an eternity. There was no east or west, up or down, not even a here or now.

There was only one sensation in that terrible black void.

Pain.

Shooting pain.

Pain raced through every bone in my body, every drop of my blood, and every ounce of my flesh, tearing my sinew from my organs.

Each new breath was laced with a throbbing fire that seemed to come at me from all sides.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I began to be able to sense the general direction from which the mind numbing sensations came. There were several points in the onyx sea that seemed to be the source, each radiating pain in the way that a pot belied stove radiates heat.

Though thought was a slippery demon at best, I sought to adhere to the only coherent impression that existed, the pulsating patches of awareness. I gradually began to realize that the various pains were different parts of my body.

My head.

My chest.

My shoulder.

My leg.

Even my best attempts at thought were nearly useless, slipping away like sand through my fingers.

"Leg? Head?" I puzzled. "Body? Is that a body? Is that my body? Do I have a body? Where am I?"

"Uncle Bliant, come quickly! I think …" A watery voice ebbed away from me. It sounded familiar, but like everything else, the voice faded as well.

* * *

**Eric**

Frustrated, I stood up from the organ.

No music would come. Mozart had no hold on me tonight, in spite of his usual residence within my fingers.

No, not even music, my sole cohort and comforter, would allow me to avoid what I had done.

I wandered over to the gleaming leather of my favorite chair and flopped ungracefully into its black embrace. Neither the crackling blaze in the ornate fireplace before me, nor the warm carpet under my bare feet, did anything to thaw my chilled limbs. I felt cold, frozen to the bone by the repercussions of my deranged actions.

"What possessed you?" I accused myself aloud, no longer able to conceal the thoughts that were silently corroding inside me.

"Four children, injured by your murderous hand Eric. Brilliant! Brillant de merde!"

It would be a long, lonely while before little Christine would hear the voice of 'the angel' in the darkness again.

She and Leah had both been rushed to St. Elizabeth's Hospital as soon as the dust had cleared. In the chaos, I had failed to catch even the faintest glance of either of them. It ate at me, the fact that I did not know anything of their conditions.

"Imbecile! Why did you go to such lengths? You are a mardekeh, and ten kinds of a fool! It would have gone swimmingly if you hadn't pulled the rope! They were frightened enough of a little paint."

A log snapped in the fire, sending out a spray of hot sparks. A particularly large one landed amidst the dark stubble on top of my foot. It singed the skin for a moment, before dying away.

Even the fire seemed to distain me.

Dark thoughts began to cloud the edges of my consciousness, seeking to justify my stupidity.

And I began to let them.

"Well, at least they won't soon forget the terror of their 'phantom', now will they?"

Those idiots were mine to do with what I pleased. Even the staunch Galen had had to bow to my superiority. I would never have to pull such a stunt again. From now on, I would stick to mental manipulations and simple tricks.

Wouldn't I?

"After all, it was only a few little ballet rats. Why should I restrain myself for their sakes?"

Before the phrase had escaped my lips, I knew it to be a lie.

Why did I care for them at all? Who were they to tie their little strings to my soul? I had abandoned such frivolities long ago.

And yet, the truth of the matter was undeniable. I cared for them.

Despite all sound reason and every logical iota in my possession, I felt a connection to them. Neither affection, nor any closely associated emotion. No, merely curiosity and empathy.

But still, those trivial feelings were dangerous enough. Perhaps it was provincial that they had been removed from my domain for a time. Perhaps I was being granted a reprieve in which to disassociate myself from them.

"Yes, of course!" I growled sarcastically. "God must be providing for my wellbeing."

A cruel grimace grew on my face at the thought, as I briefly closed my eyes. I strained to put the entire day out of my mind.

Failing miserably, I hefted my slack body from its seat and went in search of some vodka.

* * *

**Leah**

Pinpricks of light.

I was in a tunnel of some kind.

Hadn't I heard of this before? A memory stirred within me somewhere.

Someone had told me that this was what you saw as you died.

Died! No! I was not prepared to die! I still had so much I wanted to do!

I wanted to see the sunshine, to eat a chocolate candy, to hold Tina, and pray with Beth. I wasn't ready to go!

"Please, God! Not yet!" I screamed silently. The effort made the lights dance in front of me. "I want to dance again! I want to earn a spot on the playbill! I want to be in the spotlight, just once before I go. Please don't take me so soon!"

Perhaps God heard me, or perhaps I misread the signs. To this day I do not know.

I like to think that it was God.

The little stars began to meld together, forming a bright window with fast fading edges. I blinked slowly, realizing that I was waking up. The sight that greeted me was the most welcome one possible.

Beth lay sprawled over a tiny wooden chair. A ball of yarn and a pair of knitting needles lay at her feet. Her head was tipped back, and she was snoring quietly.

I was reclining in a bed of some kind. The coverlet was rather thin, and I felt chilly. My head ached, and every blink of my eyelids seemed to further irritate it.

Unfortunately, I could ascertain no more of my settings. My vision was terribly blurred, and I could not make out anything that stood at a greater distance than that of Beth's chair.

Where was I?

What was wrong?

I endeavored to lift up my head, but movement seemed impossible. All I received for my efforts was a jolt of anguish from the tender spot on my head.

"Beeeth?" I called loudly. She was a very deep sleeper. I was surprised to hear my own voice, slow and slurred like a jar of molasses.

She gave a gigantic twitch, as though stung by a bee in the arse. "Wha….? Oh! Leah!"

"Beeeth whur em Iye?" I nearly whimpered. The volume of my call and of her reply did little for my immobile head.

She quickly kneeled beside me. "Shh dear, don't try to talk. You are at St. Elizabeth's."

She smiled at the look of shock that must have painted my face. "You had quite the fall. I bet your head is foggy from the drugs, no?"

"Whud appund? Whud's rowng wid meee?" I garbled, hating the throb that punctuated each grumble.

"What did I tell you about talking young lady?" She laughed. "You fell from the rafters, remember? You hit your head, broke a rib, and sprained your ankle badly."

My eyes grew wider still.

"Don't worry Leah. Everything will heal, just give it a bit of time. Besides, my uncle is taking good care of you."

"Ooncul?"

"Oui, my Uncle Bliant. He is a doctor here. You will be fine."

She her bright smile faded suddenly, and there was an awkward silence as she fidgeted and wrung her hands, avoiding my gaze.

"Leah, there's one other thing … Lord, I don't know how to tell you this …"

"You won't be able to dance again"

* * *

**Author's Notes:** mardekeh is a mild Persian cuss word, translating roughly as worthless man.

Brillant de merde! Is French for f-ing/bloody brilliant!

Carmen is one of the most brilliant operas ever written, and it did have its debut at the Garnier. Its first season was indeed a terrible flop, as it was a radical treatment of the traditional form of opera that was popular at the time, opéra-comique. It was revived eight years later, again at the Garnier, and finally got the success it deserved.


	34. Shock, Wounds, and the Unknown

If you want some background on the REAL lead key, check out one of my pages at www deviantart com/deviation/20050384/ (replace the spaces with dots.)

**Dedicated to a certain recovering puppy. Fatter is better!**

**

* * *

Chapter Thirty Four: Shock, Wounds, and the Unknown

* * *

**

**Leah**

A ghost fluttered down the length of the passage.

Her half lidded eyes passed over the sterile white curtains that separated the wards, rejecting the cold truth of reality. A tiny stairway lead her closer to her goal as the steps groaned beneath her feet, making a counter rhythm to the wailing wind that beat against the walls of the hospital.

The next floor was silent, in an unsettling contrast to the level below. This hall was lined with doors and windows. She had come to the top floor, reserved for wealthy patients who could afford private rooms. She stopped suddenly before a window, jolted by her own reflection.

My mind was shocked enough to return to my body. I had been living as an empty shell for weeks now, hollow of emotion.

Devoid of any pain.

I had escaped my body, viewing the world as an entirely separate person whenever I could. Surely this woman before me was a stranger!

And the reflection in the rain splattered window couldn't have been more different from that of Leah Iglesias, the dancer at the Garnier Opera. Her skin was nearly as pale as the hospital uniform that hung limply from her shoulders, both an unappealing shade of off white. Her lips were dry and chapped, and her eyes flatly unexpressive.

"That is not my face." I longed to convince myself.

But reality refused to be ignored.

That was my head looking back at me through the dark clouds that suffocated the sky. A soft blue scarf was clumsily draped over my scalp, hiding the embarrassing stubble that had just grown long enough to cover my ears. I no longer disliked the hair that had once been long and luxurious, if not beautiful. I would have given a great deal to have it back now, for it had all been shaved off in order to address the wounds that now scarred my tender flesh. The injury to my head had been terrible.

The scars were a visual reminder of that evil day. They were the reason that I had remained in this prison of a building, even after my sprained ankle had recovered. They were the reason that I remained trapped in the prison of my worries.

It was they that had stolen my joy, my dance.

Dr. Giry had attempted to explain the situation several times, but constantly failed to grant me a full understanding of what barred me from my only love in life. He was a kind, quiet man, but very difficult to understand when it pertained to his profession.

For the most part, he spoke in a foreign language of medical jargon. For all that I understood of what he said, he may as well have been speaking in tongues. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he didn't know a word of French, and had been speaking in _English_ or a similarly incomprehensible language for the entire time.

I _had_ vaguely managed to make out that I had suffered a 'concussion'. "That means you were unconscious." Beth had whispered to me as he rambled on. There had been 'severe trauma' to my 'cranium'. That had referred to the disgusting gashes on my head.

They still looked terrible, crusted over with yellow puss, and my scalp had turned a multitude of unsavory colors that reminded me of chicken soup left out to sour for several years.

Apparently, Dr. Giry feared that my brain had been injured as well. "I could have told him that." Beth had muttered under her breath to me. I would have liked to have given her a swift jab, but my head had begun to swim at the very thought of movement.

He believed that this injury could cause terrible damage if it were ever to be irritated again.

"A simple accident, such as tripping on the stair or a fall while dancing, could kill you my dear." He had smiled warmly, and tried to be cheerful, but the damage had been done.

For the first few days, I attempted to convince myself that it was a lie. Or a terrible prank of some sort. The idea of never dancing again still seemed to be an impossibility. I woke up every morning, half expecting to hear that it had all been a mistake, a nightmare.

And each morning merely solidified the dreadful truth of the matter.

I would never dance again.

Each morning, my world shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. I had lost the only thing that had ever mattered to me. Yes, I loved my family. Yes, I cared deeply for my friends. But dance … dance was the root of my soul, the one companion who would never abandon me.

My family had betrayed me. And my friends, though I cherished them like sisters, were not promised to me forever. Only my passion would never leave me.

And yet, it had.

My assurance had vanished. The foundation of all I had ever hoped for in life had evaporated without warning, leaving me rudderless in an angry sea of anxieties.

What could I do? Each day I worried about survival, a new and terrifying experience. My bills in the hospital had been covered by the opera house, but what would happen when I left? How would I support myself?

The funds from my abuelos would keep me alive for a little while, but they were far from inexhaustible. Dancing had been my only true talent.

I could sew, but my skills were elementary. I had only learned to embroider. I was an abominable cook. I could play the piano, but not nearly well enough for a place in the orchestra.

There was no function for me in the opera house. There was no job that I could take outside its walls. There was no home for me to return to.

I had no where to go.

"God? What is this supposed to mean? What do you think you are doing?" I whispered in my confusion.

I could think on it no longer, turning away from the reflection and all its despair. Sinking down with my back against the wall as it vibrated from a peal of thunder, I sighed deeply. Many of the other girls were afraid of lightning and thunder, but I couldn't remember ever having feared them. Abuela once told me that storms were the orchestra of heaven, and I had always found them to be a soothing sort of music. Tina had failed to see my logic, stubbornly hiding under our quilt whenever a storm settled over Paris.

Tina.

The mere thought of my little friend sent waves of sadness crashing through me.

Tina had also suffered greatly from the accident on stage that day, for she too had lost her ability to dance. Massive splinters of wood had pierced through two of her toes. The doctor who had seen her had been forced to amputate them. I ached for her loss, knowing that she loved dance as I did.

But I ached far more deeply for the loss of her person. After the terrible accident, Tina's guardians, Monsieur and Madame Valerius, had removed her from the academy. They had been outraged that the management had allowed such a catastrophe. After Tina's surgery had been completed, she and the Valeriuses had repaired to a family estate, far away from Paris. Beth had been my sole source of information on the event, for they had left before I had awakened.

Like my family, there hadn't even been so much as a goodbye.

It seemed that everything and everyone that I loved would always leave me.

But several people had come to see me. I tried to concentrate on them instead of brooding over my loss. Henry came immediately, for Beth had sent a friend to tell him of my injury. His warm conversations and his box of chocolates had been the first to break through my barrier of emptiness. He had come as often as he could for the entire span of my tedious stay, nearly a month and a fortnight in all.

Several of my friends had braved the damp weather of spring to see me, each a warm ray of light in my dark world.

Most surprising of all, Philippe had come to call on me. When he barreled in unannounced, I had immediately blushed, embarrassed for him to see me in naught but a shift. After a bit of convincing on his part, I allowed him to stay. He had won me over with a lovely bouquet of flowers: daffodils, daisies, and lilies of the valley, my favorites. He had been sincere and sweet, brightening my day.

But the intermittent conversations with visitors could not fill up the whole of my long, dreary days in the hospital.

As soon as I had been permitted to walk about, I had begun to pace St. Elizabeth's from attic to basements, due to sheer boredom. A sweet nurse, Sharla, had allowed me to follow her when she saw my restlessness. She was several years my senior, but seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed hers. As I observed her treating her patients, I had asked to help, itching to do something. Anything.

Little did I know how profoundly it would affect me.

St. Elizabeth's was saturated with pain. I was amazed and frightened by the vast number of ways that the human body could suffer. After meeting Sharla's first patient, Tobias, I had regretted my request to help.

Tobias, or Toby, as he had informed me, laid face up on his stark white sheets. He did all that he could not to move until Sharla forced him to. Even breathing was a painful exercise for the small boy of ten. A red stain dirtied his young chest and oozed the front of his legs. As I walked closer, I had drawn in a sharp breath and closed my eyes involuntarily.

The stain was, in truth, a nauseating scab. It was a gut wrenching shade of green-ish brown that one might commonly find on the decomposing corpse of an animal and alternately black and crusted. It was cracked like old paint, exposing the sickening pink flesh beneath.

He was a monster, a freak!

"Sorry. I know this looks a bit nasty." Young Toby surprised me by speaking. I cautiously opened one eye to see him looking away, ashamed of his appearance.

"Oh! No, no, I was just a bit shocked. That's all." I lied though my teeth. I was sickened by the thought of looking at him again, but I could not further insult him. I swallowed hard, trying to prevent my stomach from leaping out of my screaming throat as I stepped nearer. I wanted to vomit. Sharla closed the curtain that partitioned off the tiny mockery of a room and began to fill a small steel tub with the water we had brought in in pails.

"It's alright if you're frightened. Most people are." He said humbly. "It used to upset me, but I don't mind so much anymore." His voice was cheerful, and despite his obvious discomfort, I found myself more and more relaxed in his exuberant presence. We chatted as Sharla gathered up various bits of strange equipment and towels.

From his energetic words and ideas, I saw more and more that he was simply a young boy who happened to have been burned. He wasn't nearly as frightening as I first imagined him.

"What happened?" I asked timidly after several minutes of conversation, gesturing to his wound.

"I was helping Maman around the kitchen and I tripped. I fell into the fire." He answered openly. My eyes grew round with surprise. The scab was from a _burn_?

"Yes, he was very lucky, this one. He nearly died." Sharla interjected with a grin, tousling his dark hair. "But not lucky enough to avoid his bath. Come on, you little imp, into the tub."

The blood drained from Toby's face as he eyed up the metal container. "Do I have to?" He grimaced.

"I'm sorry dear, but you know you do. I'll try to be as quick as I can." She replied sympathetically.

"Honestly!" I thought to myself. "All this fuss about a bath!"

But I soon learned the source of his anxiety.

Once Toby was half submersed in the cool water, I came back inside the little room to face the pair of them, sitting on the bed at a distance that afforded him some privacy.

Sharla placed a stack of towels near the tub, and picked up a very coarse heavy washrag. What a thing to scrub with! I imagined that that cloth would leave scratches on your skin.

What could she mean to do with it?

To my horror, she began to roughly scrub the dead skin off of Toby's tender chest. It was obvious that it took all that he had not to bellow in pain.

And it was all that I could do not to immediately heave up the contents of my stomach. If I had felt ill before, it was _nothing_ compared to this!

"What are you doing to him?" I barely managed to squeak out.

"I have to get the dead skin off." She grunted shortly. It was apparent that my voice was not a welcome sound, so I remained silent for the rest of the disgusting ordeal.

As she continued, Toby could no longer keep up his resolve. He burst out, shrieking like the living dead as the pink tinted water in the tub steadily turned crimson.

After it was over, we helped him back to bed. I averted my eyes until the proof of his sex was out of site behind the closed curtain.

As we headed for her next patient, Sharla giggled and called me prudish. "It's really just another limb you know! An appendage, like an arm or a leg. You don't have to be so skittish around naked men."

I had stammered and turned the familiar color of blood until we entered the room on the top floor.

When the door was opened, I was shocked in a different manner.

Upon meeting Madame Oriela, I doubt that there was any more appropriate reaction than that of shock. Though pallid and gaunt, she was full of eccentric life. She had an absurd collection of hats, and insisted upon wearing a new one each day, each more gaudy and spectacular than the last. A private maid attended her in the hospital, but her real job seemed to be walking Madame's lap ornament, a small pug named Seamus. She smuggled the dog in, and it resided in the hospital despite the doctors' best efforts to remove him.

The odd woman had been one of the few bright spots in my dim world of madness, besides my precious visitors.

I pulled myself up off the floor of the dim hallway and set out for her door. But as I reached out for the brass doorknob, it opened of its own volition, and a figure stepped out.

The most unlikely person in the world stood before me.

"What are_ you _doing here?" I demanded.

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_**Author's Notes:** Any guesses on who it is? You'll never get it, not in a million years! (Laughs maniacally) In fact, I'm willing to wager an entire cheesecake AND a chapter dedication that no one will guess! (One guess per reviewer)_

_♪As for the story of Toby, my inspiration came from my mum. She used to be a nurse (now she's an administrator). Her first job was in a pediatric burns unit. She had to scrub kids down every day, just like Toby. A lot of the time, the only part of the kid that wasn't burned was their shoulders, so she would massage them to take their minds off the pain. She got to be REALLY good at back massages, and actually passed the skill on to me. I'm even thinking about taking a masseuse course in collage for kicks._

_♫Oh, and if you are thinking that just because Leah makes nice with Toby she will then be completely understanding and loving regarding another someone's deformity … lets just say you've got another thing coming. (More dark, maniacal cackling) Oriela means angel of destiny and Sharla means little and womanly._

_♪Oh, and every body **MUST** take a look at Allegratree's last review for important corrections. Thanks Fish!_

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**Responses:** I've been terrible at responding lately. Please forgive me. (Sobs uncontrollably until somebody forgives her.)

**Fish:** Wow, did I ever screw up. Grr. The book I was taking my opera history from was rather vague, saying that it débuted in Paris. Idiot that I am, I assumed the Garnier. (Smacks forehead) It also said something about it being looked down upon because it wasn't written in high opera the first time round, so I assumed it flopped (more smacking) the French was taken off of the internet, so I assumed it might be close to accurate (tremendous smackage) I once heard an adage that says 'Assume, and you make an ass out of you and me'. Rather apropos., no? (I would continue smacking, but I must remain conscious in order to further respond.) :D I love you Fish! Oh, and I finally got the picture of a certain canine. SO CUTE! I had a ten second AWW fest when I saw him.

**Bip:** BTW, Bip is an awesome name as well as an abbreviation. It reminds me of the name Kip, which in turn reminds me of kippers, which leads to an oddly disturbing yet hilarious joke…. Any who, thanks for the review. I can do it be cause I AM GOD! Mua-ha-ha! (She is then SMOTE DOWN FROM ON HIGH) Wait, I'll be good! I'm not a heretic, really! And while he does need those things, he may not get them for about thirty more chapters (I'm kidding about the 30 thing … or maybe I'm not … refer to God complex.) and he is unlikely to turn into little miss mary sunshine once he receives them. Dork, yes, but sexy SEXY dork! (Hugh! Sigh!)

**ALC:** Hmm, as I ponder these name abbreviations, I find that yours reminds me of TLC, the television channel. Do YOU have Andrew Dan Jumbo? Tiny squee for that sexy carpenter man. But he's not half as sexy as HUGH! Since you haven't seen the stage show, Hugh is the latest guy on Broadway to play Phantom. I LOVE his voice! He has a resonate, expressive quality that I feel some other Phantoms have lacked in years past. And I adore his interpretation of the character. And he's not bad looking either. Big Squee. As for not dancing, I can't dance, and look at me, I turned out just fine! (Snickering can be heard from the peanut gallery)

**Avid:** Thanks, and much love. You inspire my typing!

**JPT:** Well, Eric may know his opera, but apparently SARAH DOESN'T. (I say this with a huge grin as I laugh at myself. One of my favorite adages applies here: 'Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused.') Authors! What ARE they thinking? … thinking … it … hurts … the …. brain. Ow.

**HomelessPirate:** Well, if you are homeless, you are welcome to pull up a trashcan fire under my bridge. (Mind you, you are unlikely to escape my insanity unscathed, but hey, even The Man Upstairs gets a little nutty now and then.) In fact, my favorite quote (a self quote) is: "The platypus. Proof positive for divine humor." As for your review, I'm blush'n worse than Leah avoiding thoughts about _'the appendage'_, though I can assure you that my waist size would complain if I consumed a million cheesecakes. I am just tickled that you like this so much, and I appreciate it when somebody appreciates my historical research. (Hands you cheesecake!) Concerning your suspicions about Beth, blast! You found me out! I am discovered! Woe is me! Yes, though unintentional, a bit of Beth is borrowed from the greatness that is LMA. (Hmm, LMA… Lama? I was in Peru last summer, and I love Lamas!) Actually, Beth is a bit of an anomaly as far as character names. Most of my character names have symbolic or literal meaning behind them, but I chose her name because I think the word itself sounds soft and gentle. As for your offer of help, I would be delighted to have another opinion on editing! I shall clean out another fish tank. (Toddles off to find her scrubbing wand.)


	35. The Silent Symphony, P1

_To celebrate 100 reviews, I bequeath unto the readers a VERY special chapter (Unfortunately for you, it comes in two separate updates).

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…The Heavens sing a silent symphony,  
As Orion shines for me.  
And are you there, feeling the same as I  
Whispering love songs to the lonely sky...  
-Nouveaux

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**Chapter Thirty Five: The Silent Symphony, P.1**

**Eric**

_Born in sin, forever doomed to a life of the same._

My mother's sickening philosophies were a constant presence in my head. Much of the time, I could suppress them and deny their veracity in the same manner that I silenced the haunting faces of the dead.

But the past two months had lowered my usual defenses of reason. Guilt can do that to a man.

Though I often found myself doubting my right to that title. What humane man could injure children, merely to further his selfish goals? I had begun to see the logic of my mother's deranged accusations.

_Sinful creature._

_Unholy demon._

_Abomination._

_Monster._

Strange, that a few broken bones and superficial scars could destroy barriers that had held all through the darkness of creative torture and horrendous murders.

Why was my hardened heart melted by this trivial affair?

Perhaps it was merely a case of a poor reading selection for the evening. Shakespeare had been occupying my weary hours as of late. A tattered volume of Macbeth lay open on my lap, dog eared from several years of thorough use.

"Not the brightest choice, Eric." I mussed aloud. I had taken to addressing myself years ago, for lack of any other companionship.

Indeed, Macbeth's mad rambling did little to calm the multitude of voices in my fatigued skull. His cries of guilt seemed to mirror my own with an eerie degree of accuracy.

_"What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!  
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood  
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather  
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,  
Making the green one red."_

"If only you could, Eric! Your eyes have seen too much. Can you pluck them out? What would we give, Eric, to be rid of these voiceless moanings in our head?"

No, William had proved himself an awful choice yet again. Instead of taking my mind off of my monotonous thoughts of remorse, the playwright had stirred them to a greater frenzy.

"Are you forever stained, Eric?" I mumbled quietly as the fire began to die down, hissing occasionally as tiny drops of water fell from the mantle.

I had had quite the time of it, trying to keep the vents of my home free of water. This spring had been particularly damp, leaving my burrow with an ever present air of sogginess that brought back brackish and bittersweet memories of De Tham, Mitra, and the magnificent Vanora, my first true love. Thoughts of that period of my life were always troubling, uncovering wounds that refused to heal and urging my mind to find new paths of contemplation. I turned to the shady ease of India and the burning sands of the later years in the east to divert my attentions. How I longed for the warm, dry air of Persia!

Perhaps this hole in the earth was a punishment from on high. I had been evicted from that delicious climate as a consequence of my mortal transgressions. The invisible blood that stained my own bony hands marked me as one doomed to the fires of hell.

But my heavy conscience traveled tonight, as it did so often, with a partner in crime. Rebellious anger stirred in my chest.

"Who are you to judge me?" Roared out of my thin, cracked lips. I leaped to my feet and the cloth bound book fell from my lap.

"Come here! Come face Eric! Brave my anger! I have no fear of a 'God' who hides away in shadows!" The dry twigs of my soul began to catch flame with the hot wrath in my heart.

"Who are you to call yourself compassionate? You curse Eric, and expect him to abide by your laws? To feel ashamed because he has broken your arbitrary statutes?" I spat with simmering contempt. Spittle flecked my buzzing lips.

"You are nothing to me! Nothing! Eric denies that you exist! Eric no longer submits to your heavy hand or your stabbing guilt!" My legs paced the long width of my little hovel as though they were not my own. I could feel the irritation of my skin painfully against the rough fabric of my trousers. The wet atmosphere of the Parisian spring always seemed to aggravate my frustratingly delicate hide from tip to toes.

I ignored the physical pain with an ease of many years. Pain was life, and to deny its reality was to deny my very existence. My body's pain had proved, nearly since birth, that I was nothing but an abomination, deserving of any grief that came my way.

Pain and music were ever present forces in the cruel joke that was my life. My earliest memories were of chastisement at the hands of the nameless nuns who had watch over my mother and I in the asylum.

But I did not know true hurt, true fear, until mother had been released from le maison des lunes.

Mother's words had haunted me ever since, provoking violence in my blood. Memories of her leather belt smarted sharply, even after all these years.

"Why are you crying? You must not cry. Crying means that you are in pain, and only real little boys feel pain. You are not real!" She would shriek, timing her blows to alternate with her shrewish voice.

"You are not real at all! You are only a nightmare, sent by God to torment me for my evil sins!"

I had learned to ignore the lash of leather on my skin.

But my mental anguish allways cried out noiselessly for release. The pain of my heart was my only claim on a share in the human race. Though my body was a twisted mockery of a man, my soul bled just as easily as any other's.

"Is this all that humanity has to offer me? Speak, damn you! Answer Eric! Is this pain the only thing that manhood will ever give me?"

Silence.

"So, you do not speak. Obviously, you fear our reaction! Well that you should, for Eric is mighty in his anger!" The heat in my chest radiated to the furthest of my extremities.

Crackling embers were the only reply.

"So be it! If you refuse to dignify me with a response, then I shall deny you as well! I am sick of waiting for you to accept me, tired of waiting for the advantages of humanity to appear!

"If I am a man, then let me be like any other man, damn you! Let me have a place in the light! Give me a wife who will touch me!"

I heard nothing besides my own shallow breathing.

"No? You refuse me? Then you seal your own fate! Henceforth, we shan't acknowledge the pain a man feels. Eric is not a man. He shall be a monster, for insults can no longer touch us. Do you hear?"

"Eric is his own God!"

With a lupine howl, I snatched up Macbeth and hurled it into the dim flames. It would serve as my freakish offering to the dark powers of whatever weird sisters guided my fate.

"With you gone," I addressed the bright cackle of the fire, "So goes my 'damned spot'! I have done what William couldn't, for I have escaped without any stain! Eric refuses to feel such maddening remorse!"

With that, I fled my pit in the bowels of the earth, seeking air on the roof of my opera house by means of my rat tunnels. In the dim stupor of the early morning's light, I breathed deeply, holding in the cool breath and savoring my freedom. Silent solitude was a sweet release from the prisons of my mind.

But soft murmurs and the telltale creak of a door suddenly told me that I was not alone. Who dared to intrude upon my privacy?

Someone would die this day!

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**Dedicated Bananas in Pajamas, for being the only one to get it right! And henceforth, I dub thee Kipper. (I must have a weird fixation with fish or something. Oh well.)

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_**Author's Notes: ♪**The title is taken from a BEAUTIFUL song called 'Maybe Tomorrow' by a white metal band from the eighties called Nouveaux. You should look it up! It ought to make better sense by next chapter … (Oh the suspense! She grins wickedly.)_

♫_You know, I've found that lately I am always writing this story while watching TV shows, either Monk or Law and Order. Monk IS the prince of darkness! (much laughter. If you don't watch the show, just don't ask.) Maybe all that death, murder and mayhem is why all my chapters are so full of angst as of late? (I love Disher. He's so utterly hopeless. I'll be your girl Lt. Disher!)_

♪_Who ever said that Eric's mommy was a sane person? It would explain a few things, no? And some thing for you to chew on: Why do you think that she was institutionalized? (The ANTZ! They returneth! They march ever on! Muahaha.) As for Eric, I think his God complex is an endearing quality.

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**Responses: Kipper:** Bloody coup, huh? Sorry dear, but I shall oppose you. Well, at least on the part about England, as I like Liz. But you are welcome to overthrow America, as I don't care for the republicans or the democrats. As for your coughing, it has been duly noted. :D

**ALC:** Who's on to me? The STALKERS? You are a stalker! Grwar! Oh, never mind. Don't give up on writing, dear! I shall quote a wise old adage for you: If at first you don't succeed, try try again. (If that doesn't work, erase all the evidence!)

**Displaced Trousers:** Your friend must be one of my kindred spirits. Heeere's Eric! And yes, she has been kidnapped. Poor Leah, I just keep causing her angst. As for your blindness, that is the whole idea! I shall infect the world with a plague of ANTZ IN YOUR PANTZ!

**JPT:** Sorry, but no cigar. I love you anyways! Yeah, my mom surprises me sometimes. She can be pretty neat.

**Avid:** No, you didn't get it either. Try again:D As for concerts, AWESOME! (I'm going to Lifefest this weekend! Big Squee!)


	36. The Silent Symphony, P2

_My apologies, but this chapter will end up being three parts long. Don't hurt me please! There was just too much material to stuff it into only two sections. But I promise, the wait WILL be worth it!

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…And though I don't know where you are, (And though I don't know who you are)  
I know you must be there, (I know you're beautiful)  
So for now I lay me down to sleep and dream  
-Nouveaux

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**Chapter Thirty Six: The Silent Symphony, P.2**

**Leah**

Paris laid quietly beneath us as the sun began to rise.

I paid the outside world little mind, for I was enthralled in a leather bound version of Bertrand's 'Description Du Pays Occupe Par L'Armee Francaise en Afrique'. The scenes of foreign people and places held me captive, for I was rather fond of stories of the world beyond France's borders. High above the morning mists, I escaped the cramped confines of my injured body, leaving it behind on the faded brown coverlet.

My reverie was halted abruptly by Beth's quiet musings.

"Aren't the stars beautiful today?" She whispered to me. It was as though she feared to break the calm of the quietness up here. In a sense, the roof was much like holy ground, separate from all the worries and pain of the floors under us.

"Mmf." I grunted back, a tad disgruntled at being interrupted. I glanced briefly at the sky above us where the bright stars were barely visible due to the rising sun.

"I could stay up here and watch them until the end of time. They are like a song without music." She smiled faintly, lost in her own thoughts of wonder.

"If you think about it," She turned to me, "It's truly amazing. Imagine! God took the time to hang each one just so, like the ornaments on a Yule tree. And all of that merely to give us something lovely to gaze at in the night…"

"…I wonder where they hide in the day?" She pondered.

I laughed under my breath. Beth's naivety was a breath of fresh air to me. "They don't hide anywhere, Beth. The stars are always shining. We simply cannot see them in the day because the sun is brighter than they are. It's only when the darkness is present that we can see them."

"Because of the contrast, no?" She wondered.

"Oui. The heavens are quite fascinating, I suppose. I hadn't given them a great deal of though before today."

A few moments of silence passed between us with an easy sense of mutual comfort as we considered the Lord's handiwork. The only distraction from our precious calm was the odd sensation of being watched, though I had learned to ignore such imaginary fears quite some time ago. Still, the impression of being surveyed lingered on in an annoying manner.

"So tell me Leah, what have you been reading today?" Asked Beth. "You seemed to be rather absorbed in it earlier."

I handed her the enjoyable little book. She examined the title and paged through it, skimming the contents before snickering.

"I declare! You have some of the strangest tastes in books. The language is so difficult!"

Mildly irritated by her friendly mockery, I simply shrugged my shoulders and leaned backwards to rest on the blanket with my hands under my head.

"I suppose I am a bit odd." I admitted. "But my idiosyncrasies can all be blamed on my Abuelo. When I was only an infant, he began to read to me. History, mythology, philosophy … anything that he himself found interesting."

"He sounds like quite the character." Beth smiled warmly at my fond memories.

"Oh yes." I giggled. "Quite the character indeed. He _was_ a bit odd, but I never really minded. I loved being near him. At night sometimes, when my mother would no longer come to my bedchamber, I would creep down to his study and we would read together. Nana was constantly on the lookout for me after curfew, so the pleasure of those nights might have had a bit to do with the avoiding capture. But I think it had more to do with him."

The rooftop faded from my mind, as I drifted back to a warm night that seemed so far away from my present situation.

"It would be dark when I finally found my way downstairs. He would scoop me up and set me in his lap while he read the paper and explained politics to me. He seemed to know everything, and I was in awe of him. I didn't always understand what he was talking about, but his voice was calming and deep. I remember the way his beard would brush up against my face as his jaw moved. The thing I remember most though, was his smell." A small grin settled on my lips as I fingered the precious memory of his fatherly touch. It had been so long since anyone had touched me with that special kind of affection. "He smelled of beeswax and leather polish and cinnamon candies. He loved cinnamon candy. Cinnamon still reminds me of the faraway places that he used to tell me about. I've often wished that I could run away to them."

I slowly floated back to reality, remembering that Beth was listening to my ramblings.

"Would you come with me, Beth? To the lands beyond?" I asked, in a silly mood.

"Mmm. Perhaps." She returned my question with mock gravity, but her grin slowly faded as she gave the flippant idea a bit of serious thought. "I'm not sure I would want to leave Paris, though."

Her reply quickly sobered my gaiety. "You wouldn't want to see the world? Go out and explore the unknown?"

"The idea sounds exciting, I must admit, but I don't really want to go anywhere. Everything I need is right here. Everything I love in life is in Paris. I wouldn't want to leave that behind."

"I used to think the same thing."

Immediately, I regretted having spoken. How could either of us respond to that remark? My ugly bitterness had severed the satisfied atmosphere that had flowed around us only moments before. The pain of my emptiness left us in several minutes of silence.

Awkward silence.

After what seemed an eternity, I broke the near tangible bonds of the uncomfortable hush.

"So … how are the routines for 'Carmen' coming along, Beth?" She had been aiding her mother in the fabrication of the choreography.

She exhaled gratefully, glad to find a new topic. "They've shaped up nicely. A few of the rows are still having trouble, but any problems should be ironed out by the end of the week."

How I longed to dance again! To be the last ballerina in the furthest row would have been paradise. The desire throbbed though my entire being with painful force, but I remained mute. I would not burden Beth with my pain.

Beth continued to gibber, unaware of my inner conflict. "The only real problem lately has been Donatella. It seems she can do no wrong!" Beth bit off the sentence with sharp, envious sarcasm. As usual, she refused to address Sorelli by her surname. It irked the budding prima donna to no end, but little could sway her from complete joy during this opera. She and Ingvar had been featured again, and her already bulbous head had swelled to frightening proportions.

But despite her haughty demeanor, I could not bring myself to think of her in the terrible light that I once had. An encounter at St. Elizabeth's Hospital had altered my perceptions of Sorelli, though not enough to change the name by which I called her. Only Beth dared to tempt Donatella's irritating shrieking by calling her by her first name.

Still, the discovery of that rainy night had demolished my thought of her as a one sided creature. It had been she that I encountered outside of Madame Oriela's chambers. Both of us had been a bit shocked to see the other, and Sorelli had been uncharacteristically civil towards me as we chatted about her grandmother. I had learned that the Mme. was, in fact, Sorelli's guardian and grandmamman. But when I had inquired after her parents, she had turned cold and shortly replied that they were dead. She left soon after, warning me not to disturb the Mme., for she was asleep.

"Don't be so hard on her, Beth. She has troubles of her own."

"What are you talking about?" A confused Beth queried. "Are we thinking of the same pompous, pampered brat?"

Beth's tone was unusually acidic, hateful even. In my heart, I knew it must be her disappointment at not attaining the primary dance role that was speaking, and I told her as much.

"I'm sure that you are right." She replied wearily. "I am sorry dear. I shouldn't allow my envy to get the better of me."

She paused before asking after my own occupations. "How does the notation go?"

Her mother had procured several errand girl posts for me at the Garnier after my accident, the most time consuming of which was assisting Cassius Blune.

Blune was Reyer's aid, and was currently consumed with rewriting the plain speech of Carmen's original script into musical recitative. It was my job to record the notes that he was composing as he played them on the piano. I was finally grateful for my piano instructor's insistence that I should learn to recognize notes and rhythms.

"As well as can be expected. Honestly Beth, I would trade M Blune for a thousand of 'La Sorelli' any day of the week. He is the most conceited man I have ever had the misfortune to meet!"

"Come now. He can't be that bad."

"No? I disagree. The only conversation that we have had in two weeks of work has been about his latest female conquest and what an irresistible creature he is. No, it was not even a conversation, for I don't think that I uttered more than three words in the entire two hours that he continued to prattle on."

Though I had to admit that the man was exceptionally attractive, with dull blue eyes and copper-blond hair, he was the furthest thing from a perspective suitor that I could imagine. I found him irritating and unappealing, but not for lack of his best efforts to persuade me otherwise.

I was very glad that Philippe had the right to my hand, as it gave me a wonderful excuse to refuse his unwanted attention. Though the Comte was not really my suitor, the mere mention of our relationship had chilled any of M Blune's plans of a new 'triumph'.

Though I was deeply grateful to have a source of income, every part of me cried out against the injustice of my new role. All my short life, I had wanted nothing but dance. And now I was forever condemned to watch from the wings as others preformed.

"I suppose I wouldn't be so very open to any new career." I admitted. "Nothing can compare to dancing."

As soon as the words left my lips, I regretted them. This would surely lead to the same unnerving silence as before!

But Beth surprised me with her gentle voice. "You miss it, don't you?"

"More than I can say!" The pent up grief rushed off my tongue, cascading like water from a broken dam. "I would give anything to dance again."

"_Anything_."

"Oh Leah. I know it hurts, but perhaps this is a new opportunity for you."

"A new opportunity? You don't understand! Dancing was my life, Beth! It was the only time that I ever felt alive. It was the only thing that ever _meant_ anything to me. I gave up my family, my life, to dance, and now it's gone!"

Beth scooted close to my side and put her arm around me. Though tears were a tempting idea, I fiercely quelled the thought. I summoned the cold, distant strength that had saved me so often before, infusing my spine with a firm resolve.

"I am sorry. I shouldn't have raised my voice. This wasn't your fault, Beth. It was mine." I muttered, wallowing in self pity.

"Don't be daft! How on earth can you think to take the blame for this?"

"If I hadn't been up in the rafters …" My stomach clenched violently with culpability. "If I hadn't been there, everything would be fine! I would be in rehearsal right now, ready to fall into my old bed! And Tina..."

"This is not your fault!" Beth grabbed my shoulders roughly, forcing me to look her in the eye. "You could not have known. No one could!"

"Why did God do this to us? We were all so happy!"

Beth only sighed and shook her head. Wisps of her soft hair escaped her dancer's bun to float in the tender breeze, glimmering in the light of the rising sun.

"God didn't 'do' anything. You know that. We live in a fallen world, Leah, and sometimes terrible things happen that no one can explain. Earthquakes, storms, sickness … they are just a part of life. But God can use them to change us. Change isn't always so bad."

I snorted softly, silently laughing at the foolish notion. Change was pain and loss and hurt.

"Do you honestly believe that?"

"Yes! Yes Leah, I have to believe it."

At my continued disbelief, she went on. "Leah, do you remember what you told me about the stars?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Think of it this way. You can only see the stars when it is night, no? The beauty of their light is defined by the darkness around them. It is the same with life. Only when you find the deepest darkness can you understand the true extent of the light. The pain of the difficult times make the good times that much sweeter. "

"It is only in the emptiness of pain that we can hear the silent symphony of joy."

* * *

_**Author's notes:** I revised a bit of last chapter, and you may want to check it out because I added a hint about another part of Eric's past._

_Beth may come across as a bit ignorant in this chapter, and rightly so. That is not to say that she is stupid. Not by any means! But I felt it important to show that Leah is very unique in her intelligence and in the level of her education. Most young women of the time had little, if any, formal schooling. This is the case with Beth._

* * *

**ALC:** Sure, send it along! I shall do my best.

**Kipper:** I have not had kippers either. My fascination stems from a bored afternoon when some friends and I were pondering strange verbs, like frolic and caper. I then wondered about capering with a kipper and a caper. I found the whole thing absolutely hilarious! Gollum? Yeah, the vibes are strong with this one. (Star Wars reference. I am more looney than usual today.) No, I have never heard of the curse. And yes, I know that it is spelled with a 'k', but the change was intentional, for two reasons. One of them will be revealed at the end of the story, and one was explained in a previous chapter's notes.

**Fish:** Sunburned? Poor fish! I bequeath unto thee a large bottle of aloe lotion! I am glad you liked it!

**Pants:** yes, just slightly off his rocker, no? That's your brother's name? Indeed, very weird, but I assure you that Eric is nearly thirty years old and the little hair that he has is dark. (She proceeds to fondle his adorably bald head. Eric proceeds to run for his life.)

**Avid:** Nope, Sorelli. But two certain someones may be seeing more of each other in the near future… As for lifefest, much fun, but I got rather sick. Very bad headache from not wearing earplugs and standing really close to the front at the Newsboys concert! Whee-hee! And they sang THE BREAKFAST SONG! Big squee!

**JPT:** the degree of his literalism (hey, that's actually a word!) is a bit skewed by the fact that he's raving bonkers. What can you do? As for the stains of his past, right now he is blocking them out as much as he can. An uncharacteristically normal reaction to such a disturbing event, no? And yes, they really didn't have anything else to do with the children. It wasn't always the case, but it did happen quite often.


	37. Adversary

_K, I decided that 'The Silent Symphony' will instead remain as two parts, not three. Why, you ask? I AM GOD, PUNNY MORTALS! DO NOT QUESTION MY WISDOM! Whee-hee! _

_(Methinks that Eric's God complex is beginning to wear off on me…)_

_Any who, on with the show:

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_

**Chapter Thirty Seven: Adversary

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**Leah**

Sweat trickled down my aching neck.

The lawn fabric of my spare blouse clung to each of my exhausted curves like a wet second skin, and my borrowed wool trousers itched incessantly. Beads of perspiration matted my tangled hair in a tight helmet around my scalp. Each drop that bloomed on my straining back tickled as it traced down my spine.

Hours of fencing had done little to drive away my sleeplessness tonight, but I trusted that tomorrow would be better. Ever since my accident, sleep had been a hard won and often fleeting prize. I suffered from frequent and disturbing nightmares of endless falling and pools of blood.

To escape the nightly torment, I had taken to coming up to the now abandoned chapel after the rest of the Garnier was fast asleep. Every few nights were spent in mindless exercise, affording me several evenings of dreamless sleep before the next restless night came around.

If I could not dance, at least I could still sweat until I was senseless.

As I practiced the mechanical forms, my mind always found an opening to wander unmercifully. I could not seem to accept Beth's poetic ideas about my life having meaning. I would much rather have remained ignorant of her promised brighter bliss if it could have meant avoiding this agony.

Even after four months, through the torture of the other girls' mockery and my scandalous hair and the change in my career, the shock of my loss seemed fresh every morning when I woke. I began to attempt to lose myself in my new work.

To be fair, not all of my work was as irritating as writing for M Blune. Mercifully, (Though the man continued to be as disgusting as ever.) I had less contact with him after the close of a wildly successful run of Carmen.

Each new opera tended to require a bit of fine tuning to adapt it to the specific needs of Garnier. And each of these alterations compelled me to interact with that … creature … for short spans of time. Still, the less I saw of him, so much for the better, and I was learning to put up with his irritating insinuations for short periods of time.

I only wished that my other livelihoods were becoming less burdensome.

The mainstay of my time was spent as an errand girl for various departments of the opera house. While I did not particularly enjoy this assignment, I had made a few kind acquaintances in the proprietors of market booths and small shops whilst making purchases.

It was an odd sensation to be outside of the walls of the Garnier again. I had once believed that those walls could hold the entirety of my life, leaving nothing to want. In the fresh air and under the bright sun, however, my heart was indecisive. The two settings could not have been more different, yet they were strangely similar at times.

The opera was filled to the brim with breathtaking music, but the open streets sang in the strains of noisy babble that passed between common people squabbling over the current price of leeks. One was dark and mysterious, while the other was full of life and color. One was full of friends and sad memories of the dreams I couldn't keep, and the other of anonyminity and false but filling laughter. There were two worlds that called to me now.

Which would claim my heart?

Adjusting to my next set of exercises, I loosed my serviceable dagger from its discreet sheath that I constantly wore on my upper thigh. Henry's fencing instructor had taught the use of the dagger as a secondary weapon and my dear brother had dutifully passed on the wisdom. I examined it for a moment, running my fingers over the well worn wooden handle.

Despite its propensity for catching on the delicate fabric of my undergarments, I was a bit surprised that more of the girls didn't wear them, especially in light of our close proximity to a large number of stagehands that were prone to frequent boozing.

Returning to my routine, I threw myself back into the work. As my body quickly glided from stance to stance, my fantasy opponent began to resemble my newest supervisor.

Mme. Bygler.

The woman was quite possibly the most exasperating human being I had ever encountered.

I shouldn't have allowed myself such sinful thoughts, but I indulged for a few moments before attempting to consider her objectively. Thera Bygler was a minuscule speck of a woman with more wrinkles than Mme. Oriela's little dog. Though she headed the costume department, the fierce eyed harpy was nearly blind at any distance further than a few feet.

It had taken some time to grow accustomed to her odd, shuffling gait and her incessant squinting in the stifling surroundings of the costume room. Her voice was sharp and gratingly shrill. Whenever I heard it, I was forcibly reminded of a small, wet rodent that had shrunken in the sun. (In much the same manner that one would see a grape shrink into a raisin.)

Everything about the head seamstress was sharp, disciplined, and demanding, from the outlines of her brittle little bones under her limp skin to her tyrannical overseeing of her department. Though I was only partially in her employ, as I had been relegated to the tedious task of detail work, she showed no compunctions about giving me a thorough tongue lashing upon discovering any minor flaw in my mind numbing products.

I had learned embroidery merely to satisfy my Abuela, and secretly hated the loathsome task. After only three or four hours of intense concentration on my tiny, even stitches, my head would always begin to throb. Mme. Bygler and her colorful commentary did little to ease my silent discomforts.

But nothing could really be done about her, so I resigned myself to my tedious fate. I could at least be thankful that she wasn't Monsieur Blune.

Try as I might to avoid the depressing circle of my thoughts, my efforts were cut in two. I seemed to dwell on my dead dreams with every waking moment. But I was at a loss when endeavoring to let go of them. Anger seemed to be my only outlet for my pain, and I used it as a fuel for my midnight disciplines.

It was as though some abstract cosmic hand had reached out, delved deep into the cavity of my chest, and left a terrible gaping hole in its wake. Try as I might, I could not fill the hole, nor could I lessen the pain. It was not for lack of trying.

I had thought to bury myself in my new occupations, but it was like attempting to fill a granite quarry with a few grains of sand. I had lost my life's purpose and nothing would ever bring it back.

I felt like an empty half of a whole.

Something was missing within me. Something vital.

Even my friends could do little to distract me, at times being the very causes of my hurt. Every time that I passed them tripping down the hall in their practice uniforms, I longed for what was denied to me.

Worse still, my absence had erected an unspoken barrier between us. Oh, they never said a word, but the pity in their eyes spoke to me in endless volumes. They had not excused me from any of my old activities, warmly inviting me to return to our nightly communions, despite the fact that I no longer slept in a student's dormitory. Their welcome and their love had not changed, not one iota.

Still, some ethereal bond of sisterhood had nearly been severed, for I was no longer a dancer. I no longer belonged in that part of this world, for I could not banter with them about what we had seen in rehearsals or who was seeing whom. It was sometimes easier on all of us that I simply forget to attend the bedside chats.

My new bed was a tiny one, obviously meant for a single occupant, in a remote corner of the first level basement.

I missed the sunlight like a dying flower. My cramped quarters did not contain even the faintest traces of a window. I imagined that it could be described as a preview for the grave, where one's body is trapped in a small box under the earth. I was simply a rat in a burrow, a mole in its pitiful little den.

Pushing my body to a higher level of exertion, I forced all the idle thoughts of self pity from my mind. As I grunted with the power behind my movements, I took up my grievances with the only one who was not uncomfortable around me these days.

"So Lord, where are the bright stars tonight?" I grimaced with bitterness and helplessness.

"Was there really a point to this?" I asked as I blocked my imagined adversary.

"Couldn't you have managed some other way of maneuvering things? You know, something a bit less … painful?"

Despite my Job-like tone, I was open the most secret places inside and laying them bare before my God, my friend. Only he had ever heard me confess to fear or hurt so frankly.

With a swift, poorly timed thrust, I nearly fell over. I felt my cheeks on fire, for even if Jesus was the only witness to my breach, I hated to fail.

"Would it be so much to ask to at least send me a fencing partner?" I growled peevishly. "I'll never get any better without something more than thin air and a teenage imagination!"

"Why are you so very determined to keep me alone? Will no one stay near me?"

"Just answer me! I need a little show of good faith."

"…Please?"

A few moments of disgruntled silence on both our parts, my foil struck something solid. A metallic ring hung in the air like a trumpet of judgment.

"Who the hell are you?"

The words poured out of my lips in a state of pure petrifaction and shock, making a strange contrast to the accusatory tone of my voice.

In the deficient light of my flickering hurricane lamp, I could only make out the ominous edges of a massive figure in the darkness.

And it had a rapier of its own.

* * *

_**Author's notes:** Well, this was the BIG EXCITING chapter that I had planed to post for the hundredth review, but you know what they say about the best laid plans… Any guesses on what comes next?_

_On a real life note, I just made the most EXCELENT discovery in my basement. I found two boxes of joy, one full of leather and cloth bound books that date back to 1900 and earlier (and half of them are gothic romance novels and poetry! I love my ancestors!) and another box full of sheet music that is just as old. Perhaps ogling my discoveries has been the reason behind my slight writer's block?_

_Yep, some women DID carry concealed knives under their clothing. Not everybody obviously, but enough for it to be historically feasible. I think Leroux might even have mentioned it in regards to Sorelli. Does anybody recall that, or am I more looney than usual today?

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_

**Fishy:** I will edit that, many thanks. You like it, you really like it! (Throws her arms around you, causing any sensible creature to run for its life. You, however, being gifted with gills but not with legs, cannot go anywhere. Buwahaha!)

**Kipper:** I'm lovely? (She tears up and wants to hug you, but seeing as you DO have legs, she refrains, content to give you the psychotic joy of another chapter.) Oodles of thanks for the info on the curse… (Plots and rubs her hands with maniacal glee) I'd love to know what you predict the name thing to be about. You mentioned 'gory glory'. I just have this need to know if you have gotten it or not. (And hey, if your idea is better than mine, you can have the 'honor' of allowing me to pirate from you. (Winks) If you don't want to give away your guess on the review board, feel free to e-mail me.

**My favorite homeless bum (well, you ARE the only homeless bum I know presently, therefore my favorite**.): poor burn victims. Get better! Much love for the review.


	38. Awkward Letters

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Chapter Thirty Eight: Awkward Letters

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**Leah**

The clumsy inscription was like a comforting mantra as I traced it with pinpricked fingers.

The worn wood of the little knife's handle bore Henry's childish attempts at carving his name into the surface. In my terror, the dagger gave me a small measure of reassurance. He had given it to me the day I left home, and I had been moved by the symbol of his love for me. It had been his first secondary blade, and one of his most prized possessions, despite its age and rough appearance.

I knew at once that it had been a true sacrifice for him to see it go. When I had tried to refuse, he had merely quieted me with a gentle hug and a soft whisper of "You take care of yourself, Izzy." He had wanted me to be safe, and told me on one of his visits that it made him breath easier knowing that I could take care of myself. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you, hermana."

I wondered now if I would ever feel safe again.

The light in my cramped room was like the day. I had lit the soot caked lamp and all three of my candles, ignoring the impracticality and expense. Such trivial affairs were the furthest thing from my mind, for I was much more concerned with the ghost.

Until tonight, I had never believed in such fantasies. My Abuelo had regaled me with old family legends about specters and ghouls, but I had never taken them to heart. His favorite story was of the three men in black. Family history would have it that many of my ancestors had seen three men, cloaked in all in black, just days before their deaths.

Did this mean that I was going to die too?

Suddenly I wished that I had paid more attention to Frasquita's superstitious advice. What had she said was a protection against evil spirits? Hemlock? Or was it a coin in your shoe?

Mustard seeds, that was it! I would have to go to Mme. Theed in the morning to find some. Once the hallways were no longer dark…

Even the thought of a dark place frightened me so badly that I nearly wet myself. I pulled my tattered quilt tighter around my rigid shoulders. I was not fond of the dark to begin with, but now the only image that it conjured for me was the outline of a black, shadowy figure.

I had only glimpsed that blurry image for an instant before instinct kicked in and I fled the attic. It had been several hours since I had barricaded the door to my little room, but my fear was still just as palpable as the moment that I curled up in my bed. Nothing short of all the angels of heaven could have moved me from that spot.

And nothing did, until the work day began.

* * *

**Later, that afternoon…**

The events of the day had done little to ease my worries.

My mind had been bombarded with petrifying thoughts with every waking moment. Would I die soon? Had I imagined the whole thing? What if I returned to my room to find the black shadow waiting for me?

Even the tiny pouch of mustard seeds around my neck could not make the day any easier.

Of course, not even mustard seeds could ward off the terror that is Mme. Bygler. She had rapt her bony hand on my little table and castigated me for my lack of focus more times in one morning than I could count.

"I'd like to see how well you could concentrate after receiving a death omen!" I had thought to myself. "Of course, you see one every morning in the wash stand mirror, so perhaps you are used to it…"

I had been so glad to escape the costume department at lunch time that I had momentarily forgotten the annoyance of my afternoon chore.

For a pleasant change, I had only one errand to see to. Unfortunately, Madame Bygler's order of ribbons was to be picked up in an entirely distant section of Paris, requiring quite a journey on my part.

"At least I didn't have to walk." I confided quietly to Octavia as we neared the stables.

Her only response was a soft snort, sending a blast of horsy breath down my neck before I handed her reins to M Lachenel, the head groom's assistant. With a fond pat on her amiable nose, and the packages under my arm, I set out to be rid of the troublesome things. Leaving the stables, I reflected on how deeply I missed my little Tina. It seemed only yesterday that we had discovered the stables, and had been discovered in turn by Monsieur Bouquet.

As my thoughts turned to Joseph, as he insisted I address him, a small smile played at the corners of my pensive mouth. Though several years my senior, the sweet boy had become a good friend.

Since the day that Tina and I had first met him, I did not see him again until Mme. Bygler insisted that I learn to ride. She had been scandalized that her new errand girl should be so inept. She then decided that it was a necessity that I be instructed at once, in order to carry out her errands more efficiently. I had been a bit daunted by the massive animals, but had forgotten all my cares the instant that Joseph and I were reintroduced.

I had been ecstatic that he should be the one to teach me, for I had been rather taken with him at the time. After a few days (and the knowledge that he was courting a girl of his own age), however, my girlish infatuations had faded and given way to a decidedly comfortable companionship.

After only a few weeks, he deemed me 'fit' to ride in the streets. I, on the other hand, preferred to lead Octavia whenever I could, for I still felt dreadfully unstable atop her massive back. It did not help matters any that I was so very aware of my new need for caution when considering my head. Still, Joseph had been wonderfully helpful, and unexpectedly sociable.

We shared several interests, including Greco-Roman history, as was obvious in the names he helped to choose for many of the Garnier's equine residents. Cleopatra, Remus, and Hermes were only a few of his four footed constituents. I had been rather surprised to learn that he could read at all, but was quickly convinced.

It was still a rather foreign idea to my basic intuition that one might befriend another of the opposite sex. I had never related this well to any man who was not related to me, excepting Philippe of course.

"Ah, Philippe." I inwardly sighed.

Despite my best efforts, I was growing fonder of the dear man every day. I often fantasized that he would propose to …

My daydreams were cut short by a loud crash and a sharp elbow in my gut.

Lights danced in front of my eyes and blurred my vision, but in the mist of the confusion I could distinctly make out several mumbled curses emanating from whatever I had hit.

"_Putai_- … Oh my goodness! Leah, I didn't see you there!"

I couldn't have been more stunned than if I had bumped into the black ghost.

"Sorelli!" I cried as I recognized the figure in the fashionably cut duster. Both of our packages lay strewn about on the dusty floor. Apparently she had been shopping as well, for several unfamiliar bundles and tins were mingled with my own. "Désolé! This is all my fault."

"Nonsense." She replied gruffly. "I should have been paying more attention."

As soon as I identified the victim of my clumsiness, an uncomfortable tangle of emotions began to swell within me. I had once detested this girl, but now I was unsure of precisely what I ought to feel for her.

The grounds for my dislike had not changed a bit, for her manners and opinions were still just as odious as the first day I met her. What's more, her personal interactions with the opposite sex flew in the face of everything that my new found faith proclaimed to be right. Beth, Amanda, Alana, and Hortense had all made their opinions of her infinitely clear. She was notorious in the dormitories for her unforgettable cappers with the upper crust. It sometimes boggled the mind to think that someone so 'widely traveled' was only a few years older than myself.

But the more that I saw of her, the more complicated my view became. The same girl that insulted Beth and her moral choices as old fashioned and prude had been the one to silence the mockery of my injury. When I had returned from St. Elizabeth's, many of the more popular ballerinas had tormented my newfound positions and the red scarf that I had worn to cover my scandalous hair.

In an astonishing moment of humanity, it had been none other than Donatella Sorelli herself who had stilled their squawking with one disapproving glare. She had even gone so far as to acknowledge me in passing when we saw each other in the halls. It made no sense at all. I might have brushed off her gestures as misplaced pity, save for one unsettling detail.

Though my hair was no longer long enough to reach my thighs, it was now long enough to hide my shoulders. Despite the fact that I no longer wore the scarf, Sorelli had continued to address me civilly when we chanced upon each other.

Who was this girl, to be so hateful and so kind in turn?

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rustling paper, and I returned from my daze to see Sorelli kneeling beside me to gather her things. I joined her quickly, embarrassed by my absent thinking. The silence between us was deafening and uneasy and I raced to think of something to say to end the stillness.

"So then, Sorelli, how have you been?" It had been the only thing I could think of. Obviously the years of Abuela's etiquette training had done their job.

"What a silly thing to say!" I mentally berated myself for sounding like a fool until she responded.

"Uh, Bien, bien. Thank you for asking." She returned in a tense voice. Perhaps she felt as awkward as I did. "Et tu? Comment allez-vous ?"

"Je vais bien, aussi."

The dratted quiet returned once again to the hallway, until Sorelli asked an unexpected and unsettling question.

"Leah," She paused, unsure of herself. "Is something wrong? You seem far away."

What? How could I respond to _that_? I couldn't tell her the truth! I sat down on the wooden floor, leaning back against the pine wall in a shaft of warm afternoon light, completely oblivious to the impropriety of the situation.

Sensing my discomfort, she asked me again. "Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?"

"Sorelli, why have you been so … nice?" I blurted out. I regretted it at once. It sounded absolutely vulgar.

"What do you mean?" She inquired, half surprised, half offended, and entirely taken aback. She sat down beside me, and our packages lay forgotten in a pile.

"You stopped them, when they were laughing at me once. You recognize me when you see me. You never used to do that sort of thing."

"Oh." Came the quiet answer. She remained mute for a moment, her forehead furrowed by thought. "I suppose it started when I saw you in the hospital that night. I felt sorry for you."

So I had been right. It had only been pity. I felt like the lowest creature who ever slithered across the ground. "I don't want your pity!" I wanted to scream at her. "You don't understand!"

Instead, I kept quiet, cold strength filling the emptiness inside me.

When I did not speak, she continued. "When you left, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I wondered what it would be like to loose my dancing … I couldn't imagine it, Leah. I couldn't even imagine being without it. It's the only thing that has ever mattered."

I turned my head away from her, trying not to think about how painful it was to listen.

She must have seen me, for her voice softened. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

"Ce n'est pas grave." I retorted coolly, not wanting her to know. To mask my grimace, I returned to the task of collecting my things, expecting her to do the same. To my surprise, I felt her delicate hand on my shoulder.

"I never thought that any one could be strong enough to loose that much and still go on. I … I know I couldn't." Was she actually saying what I thought she was saying? Neither of us spoke for a moment. "Is it hard?"

I wanted to slap her.

Instead, I went back to collecting my things. Under one of my brown paper packages, I found an unfamiliar little tin. Curious, I examined it as Sorelli began to rummage about for her own purchases. Turning it over, I began to read the label.

"Lettres Françaises"

I nearly dropped the tin. I had never actually seen the forbidden things before, only heard them mentioned in passing. Sorelli must have noticed my pause, because she looked up to see me staring intently at the box.

We merely stared at each other, for what seemed like ages, as I grew more and more red. Finally, she snatched up the tin and stuffed it hastily into another bag.

"Um, Sorelli, what were we talking about?" I asked, trying to avoid any more unease between us.

She shot me a grateful glance before replying. "I asked you if it was difficult. Not to dance anymore, I mean."

"I suppose"

"You really can't? Not at all? Not even something simple, like a ball?"

I pondered it for a moment before answering. "I suppose I could still do that."

"So then you'll be attending the masque next month, no?"

"No. The man I've been seeing is busy." Philippe had told me a few days ago that he would be out of town that night.

"You shouldn't let that stop you, Leah." She smiled mischievously. "I can make some inquiries with a few of my friends if you'd like."

At first I was a bit shocked, but I _had_ wanted to go rather badly. "Perhaps." I grinned back. "It might be a nice change to get out again." Philippe had been rather distant as of late, and it had been some time since I had seen the inside of a ballroom.

"I think I know a few people who might like to make your acquaintance." She added playfully as we walked towards her room.

"I make no promises, but I'll think about it." I told her as we reached her door.

"You do that. Au revoir."

"Au revoir." I walked away from her closed door more confused than I had been before talking with her.

After delivering Madame's ribbon, I slunk away to the sanctuary of my quiet room and fell into a deep sleep despite the early hour.

Unbenounced to me, I failed to notice the evening meal and a small letter outside my door, addressed in an untutored script and sealed with red wax.

* * *

_**Author's notes:** I'll confess upfront. I DO NOT SPEAK FRENCH! If I have translated something poorly, please, please, PLEASE TELL ME! My gratitude in advance. And my congratulations to anyone who can speak French, for I am in awe of you. It is so hard to pronounce! I think I'll stick with my beloved Spanish. (hugs the abstract concept of the Spanish language.)_

_Superstition was a very prevalent theme in this period. The legend of the three men in black is based on a real legend. I found one version of it here: __ (The story is the last one on the page.) Mustard seed really was believed to ward off attackers, evil spirits, and witches. A duster was a kind of overcoat for ladies. It is perhaps a few years ahead of the period of the 1880's, but it's roughly accurate. (So please have pity and don't shoot the nutty authoress.) Also, French letters were a euphemism for condoms._

_As for their first meeting, I thought that this was probably the most realistic reaction for Leah. I know that most fanfic's have the first meeting ending in passionate kissing or civilized discussion. I mean honestly, a crazy (not so dashing) masked man pops out of the wall, what would YOU do? Do you guys agree that this was a realistic reaction?_

_ Oh, and as for there being more than one masked ball at the Garnier, Yes, there were several given each year. I cite Leroux, from chapter nine, the eighth paragraph,where he compares the atmosphere of that masque with other masques, implying that there was more than one.

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_

**Fish:** Thank you ever so much dear, for all your help with the revisions as well as your wonderful comments! I hug you repetitively! As for the knife, I hope this has cleared a few things up.

**Kipper:** I feel LOVED! I have never had banana taffy before. Was my chapter inspired? The legs thing had to do with the fact that I said that fish did not have legs and couldn't run away. I might just play pirate, but you have to tell me what you think it is first:D

**Homeless:** I am glad that I keep you interested, my crispy compadre!

**ALC:** You got kick off? Huh?

**JPT:** I'm so happy that you like it! You really seem to understand where I am trying to go with the piece!

**Avid:** Could you be right? You'll just have to wait and see… as for Newsboys, I LOVE THAT SONG! I even bought the t-shirt.


	39. Hot Guilt, Cold Hope

**Chapter Thirty Nine: Hot Guilt, Cold Hope

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**

_Ever read a confusing chapter in a fic and think to yourself, "Self, someone ought to put a warning label on that for possible brain strain!"? Well, I have, hence this warning:_

Please read the first section of my chapter notes before attempting to understand the chapter. This update is rather mysterious and question evoking even if you do read the explanation, so please obey the authoress. It's for your own mental safety.

* * *

**Eric**

The gas lamp above me flickered fretfully, threatening to go out all together.

Its tiny flame sent shadows dancing across my hurried scribbles. The sooty little thing was the only illumination in my clammy bedchamber, save for the dying fire.

"I suppose she'll have to be a mezzo after all." I mumbled to no one in particular. "No soprano will be able to hit these notes with enough emotion."

Running an aching hand through my sparse hair, I surveyed my most recent labor with a weary but critical eye. I began to sing the latest bit of Zerlina's aria lightly under my breath, at a lower octave, as I played through the finished verse.

…_Mis manos gritan fuera  
Sus nombres,  
De los hombres  
Para sus sangre  
Se ha manchado  
Ha manchado  
Ha manchado  
Mis manos-_

The organ hit a dissonant chord as the tender muscles of my hand spasmed with pain. Removing my throbbing fingers from the ivory that spanned the length of the key board, I found that I could barely bend them. As if my agony were not enough, an infuriating noise began to buzz about the room.

In my irritation, it required several minutes for me to realize that I still had one foot on the pedals.

Rid of one annoyance, I turned my attention to the more pressing matter. My fingers continued to radiate bursts of pain at the slightest movement. It had been several months since they had been quite this bad.

"How long have I slaved over you this time?" I vaguely addressed the ever growing heap of parchment that was my masterpiece. Seeking an answer from a more intelligent source, I shuffled into the parlor. I nearly tripped over my robe several times before consulting my aged calendar clock.

"Three days …" I pondered aloud. "I suppose I ought to find something to eat."

My stomach agreed most heartily with my decision.

My robe, on the other hand, did not. I came close to falling flat on my poor excuse for a face before catching myself on the worn ottoman.

"Morceau de merde!" I yelped, possessed by the desire to destroy the dratted thing. But in the face of having to wander about my den stark naked and cold, I chose to let it live another day.

"You ought to be glad that I am too lazy to find something else to wear right now." I groused absently at the unhappy garment while fixing a light dinner. Experience had taught me not to eat ravenously after many days without food.

Even my beloved spices were out of the question after such a long fasting period. Wistfully gazing at the glass bottles of cilantro and ropes of garlic, I soberly compiled a small plate of cold chicken and slightly stale bread. I knew that enduring a few bland meals would keep a stomach ache away.

Unfortunately, there would be no such escape from the swollen joints of my fingers. While I could spend days at a time playing any of my instruments, recording the music I created always proved to be my undoing. Writing had been a source of frustration and cramping for me since the first time I picked up a pen.

I sat down at the wobbling, dilapidated table to eat, slouching in the only chair in the small kitchen while memories stirred at the mention of a long ago moment. The day that I had first learned to write held a strange place in my heart. One might have even said that I looked upon it with some semblance of fondness, if such a word could be applied to any part of my life.

I was fourteen at the time, and it had only been three years since I had thrown in my lot with De Tham. I remember it as having been a warm, sunny day, with nary a cloud in the bright sky. My morning chores done, I had observed De as he scribbled in a leather bound journal. As silently as I knew how, I had crept closer, intrigued by the mystery of the written word.

I managed to convince myself of my stealthiness for only a few brief seconds. De calmly turned his head, stared me up and down, and dryly grumbled "Stop your staring and come here then."

In all my travels, I have yet to encounter a demeanor anything like that of De Tham.

And in all my years, the time I spent in his crew was perhaps the most life altering. In fact, it had been due to my life style then that 'Don Juan Triumphant' had been born.

For if I hadn't joined the crew of Vanora, I would never have met Mitra.

Though Vanora would always remain the first love of my heart, Mitra would surely continue to be its center until the day I died. She had been all that her name implied, and its antitheses all at once. Who would have guessed that one singular woman could fly you up to heaven and condemn you to hell in a solitary breath?

Mitra…

Even after all these years, the mere thought of her was still enough to bring me to my proverbial knees. In the silence of my damp kitchen, emotions poured through me like the waters of every sea I had ever sailed. Loss, envy, longing, pain, even love.

As I cleaned my chipped dishes and tried to forget her face, I inwardly buckled under the depth of my loneliness. How long had it been since I had been near a woman that way? Years, I was forced to admit to the cold, soapy surface of my tea mug.

True, the occasional masque ball afforded me some merciful time in the company of the fairer sex a few times each year, but I yearned for just a bit more.

"Would it be so much to ask to have a lady on my arm for once?" I burst out, railing against God.

"But what woman would consent to such torture, Eric?" I made the question rhetorical. I could not counter such straightforward logic. No woman had ever willingly remained in my presence, excepting Azadeh. Hell, even that little dancer had run from me.

I had been restless four nights ago, and ventured above ground for some distraction. Hearing her heated prayers, I had felt compelled to do what I could to help her. For God's sake, I had maimed the stupid child! I had hoped to make amends by posing as a heavenly messenger one last time. After all, what would it hurt to answer one final prayer?

Despite the best of my intentions, the girl had only taken one look at me before fleeing in terror.

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over what to do and regretting my guilt. At one point I had left a lengthy letter near Leah's door, but I later removed it. I had been unable to concoct a suitable explanation for my presence at that hour in such a strange location. Irritated, confused, and guilt-ridden, I had immersed myself in 'Don Juan', seeking to block my failure from my mind.

Mon Dieu! The chit hadn't even seen my face!

How could I hold out any hope of one day keeping a woman in my bed if I could not keep some half-pence former dancer in the same room with me? Was I doomed to this lonely existence for the rest of my weary days?

I longed to lie down and die, but a tiny fragment of my soul refused to admit my sure defeat. I had not utilized every resource yet, had I? There was still a chance that could ensnare a willing bride, a companion. Someone who would touch me, lead me into the light of day… How I longed for such a miracle!

"We will not give up! Eric will have what he seeks!" I determined resolutely.

Surely there were other avenues left for me to explore. I would try with that Leah girl. She would be an easy experiment, young and new to her faith, unsure and in need of a bit of guidance. She would be the best candidate to perfect my wooing on.

If I could win her, then there was still a chance for me to find a real love.

If not… No, I would win this battle. I would not even entertain the idea of failure.

This would be easy! I had conquered the great minds of Siyamak and Berk. This girl would prove to be no trouble at all after such awesome feats.

Heartened by my strengthening resolve, I began to strategize. She had a male 'friend' of sorts, I remembered. Comte something or other. He could be handled without any trouble. I would simply procure another companion for him.

"As for me," I mused, "I shall have to become her ideal. What about the Comte attracts her? What does he have that I need?"

Power? Wealth? Well bred manners? After reflecting a little longer on the matter, I chose my course of action, sure of the outcome.

It appeared that I had some shopping to do.

* * *

**Authoress's Notes: **The song is of my own invention. What can I say? It's kind of an offshoot from the symphony I've been writing this past year. I've actually written lyrics and basic melodies for two pieces from Eric with a c's 'Don Juan Triumphant'_ (I'm a big believer in Tolkien's thoughts on writing background stories, if that gives you any indications.) _and I have a vague idea for a plot line for the opera. _(Oh look, I'm going all ALW and creating imbedded works. Arg_.) The song is written as an aria for Zerlina. _(A character from Mozart's Don Giovanni, I believe, in which she is a past lover that desperately wants Don Juan back, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with her.)_ She sings this after killing some of Don Juan's enemies, and in it she laments the fact that she has taken lives. She mourns the loss of her innocence and is devastated because Juan has rejected her again, despite all that she has done for him. The excerpt in this chapter is only part of the aria, and the translation goes something like this. (_And I apologize for any grammatical errors, as I am not a native speaker.)_

'_They Are Stained'_

…_My hands cry out loudly  
The names,  
Of the men  
For their blood  
Has stained  
Has stained  
Has stained  
My hands…_

So, anybody have any guesses about who De Tham is? Vanora? Mitra? (Cackles maniacally)


	40. To Dance with the Devil

**

* * *

Chapter Forty: To Dance with the Devil

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**

**Leah**

The air around me sang with anticipation and overwhelmed my senses.

The room was alive with movement as nearly thirty dancers flitted about, searching for lost garters, misplaced rouge, and communal liquor. Bright electric lights threatened to blind me while Sorelli's hot curling iron hissed only a few terrifying inches away from the back of my neck. Perfume and brandy hung heavy against a backdrop of chirping and tittering that would have made any aviary jealous.

From my perch on a stool in the smallest of the public dressing rooms, it was all I could do not to be driven mad. Even during the most expansive productions, the little room had never seen so much commotion, nor so many bodies.

Apparently, they had originally planned to sneak into one of the larger ones, but had failed to pick the lock. If I had had any idea of what Sorelli had been proposing in offering to help me nearly a month ago, I would have run screaming in the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, God had never seen fit to grant me the gift of foresight.

Bereft of such a miracle, I had finally given in to Sorelli's insistence that I join her and her entourage in preparing for the masked ball. She had been quite persistent in hounding me in the matter. It appeared that, for some reason far beyond my fathoming, she had taken a liking to me. To be truthful, the sentiment was not a one sided affair.

Try as I might, I could not seem to distance myself from her, nor from the world that she lived in. This group around me was a shocking contrast to quiet nights in the company of my friends. Shocking, and oddly exciting. Every second with them was fascinating and new, a source of forbidden knowledge and taboo perspectives. Though I had hesitated to become involved with girls who lived such lifestyles, I had convinced myself that one night would not harm anyone, least of all myself.

Thus I found myself in the midst of this giggling gaggle, only hours away from a night that I had been anticipating for weeks.

"Leah? Bonjour? Have you heard anything I've said?" My 'hairdresser' interjected. She had been nattering on relentlessly all night about her handsome escort. After the first few seconds, I had lost interest. How could I listen when I was so anxious about my own evening?

"What? Oh, pardoneme Sorelli. I can't seem to keep my mind on anything tonight."

"Still mooning about your mysterious new beau?" She poked my side playfully. "Can't say that I blame you. It's all so romantic! Anonymous notes, pretty flowers, and a secret admirer to boot. You must just be lucky."

"Luck has nothing to do with it!" I retorted, keeping up the jest. "Men are simply drawn to my natural feminine charms." I smiled with a forced façade of confidence.

If only my self-assurance weren't such a farce! I longed to be more like Sorelli, sure of myself and ready to advance against the entire world.

"I don't know about that." She wagged a good-humored finger in my face. "But I suppose it's the only reason that I can think of. What else could have attracted such a man to you?"

"Well, now! I am deeply insulted by that remark!" I made to turn and face her with my sarcastic grin, but she laid a restraining hand on my shoulder.

"If you don't stop your awful wiggling, I am afraid that you are going to be deeply _burnt_. Now sit still! I only have a few more strands to go."

I complied restlessly, for I was impatient to be done. As I sat motionless, I began to honestly wonder why any man would have sought out my hand tonight. And in such a bold fashion! Why would anyone be so interested in a dull, skinny errand girl?

A few weeks ago, I had returned to my small cellar room to find an unexpected package. Sorelli had walked back with me from her afternoon classes, once again attempting to convince me to attend the dance. As every day before, I had politely been trying to decline. It was beyond improper to attend such an event without an escort or a chaperone, and I had neither, despite her best efforts to procure me a partner.

As we came to my door, our conversation had ceased. Lying in our path was a small bouquet of flowers and a sealed envelope. I had stood dumb-struck and muttered that someone must have delivered them here by mistake.

Inwardly, I wondered if Philippe had had some sort of epiphany about our relationship. Lately, he had been more and more distant, and each time I had met him, I had feared that it would be the night that he would end our little affair. This gift could not be from him, though I wished it so with all my heart. And besides, the Comte would never have sent me something so daring.

As Sorelli pounced upon the note and declared that it was in fact addressed to me, I had examined the audacious flowers. Red tulips, yellow acacias, pink vervain, and delicate sweet peas. What a bold assortment of messages!

Red tulips meant a declaration of admiration. The acacia stood for secret affection, while pink vervain spoke of enchantment. Most surprising of all were the sweet peas, for they signified an invitation.

But an invitation of what? And who was doing the inviting?

Once Sorelli had made her exit from my grimy home, I locked the door and examined the missive. It was indeed addressed to me.

Leah Iglesias was scrawled out in polite black ink on the heavy, gold-lined paper, but the handwriting appeared to be that of a drunken four-year old.

Was this someone's idea of a practical joke? Perhaps one of the younger stable hands had thought to emulate Joseph and his propensity to have an occasional friendly laugh at my expense. I found that my free hours were more and more often spent in his company, and I had made the acquaintance of several likely little miscreants. But this seemed a bit too unkind to be a prank.

My fingers trembled with anticipation as I broke the unmarked wax of the yellow seal. I had needed to reread the letter several times before I could bring myself to believe that I was awake.

_Dearest Mademoiselle,_

_Please allow me to apologize for my uncouth behavior a few nights past. It was I who interrupted your evening endeavors, and for that I can only submit my deepest and sincere regrets. My conduct was most unbecoming of a gentleman. I beg your forgiveness for my disrespect of your person and your privacy._

I nearly dropped the paper in my hands. It had been a man? My fears were unproved? Sensations of relief, curiosity, and irritation struggled within me as I continued to read.

_It would greatly assuage my guilty conscience if you would consent to grace me with your enchanting hand in the near future. I should dearly like to explain my recent behavior and would be delighted to better make your acquaintance. It would be my honor to attend the upcoming opera masque in the glow of your radiant company. _

_Should you choose to accept my respectful invitation, please send me word by way of the honorable Dr. Giry, a mutual acquaintance of ours. _

_If you answer in the affirmative, I shall await you in the Lunar Sala. You will know me by a blue king's-spear in my buttonhole._

_With deepest respect,_

_An admirer _

I was flattered, curious, and eager, a volatile cocktail of emotions. There were far too many questions to reject his complimentary invitation. Besides, I had not heard such flowery language from a man since the last girl that Henry had been smitten with.

I had to admit that whoever this man was, he certainly knew how to impress a girl.

I could only hope that this mysterious gentleman would find me as impressive. I had been planning my appearance carefully, making sure to accentuate my best features, but keeping modest at the same time. Weeks of consideration had gone into this one night.

I nervously wandered back to my room to make final adjustments to my face. Standing in front of the small, age worn mirror above my washstand, I carefully examined my reflection and smoothed the pale pink gown over my hips. As I scrutinized Sorelli's artful confection atop my head, I released the clasp of my necklace.

I laid the silver chain and its little key on the rough wood of the dubious washstand with tender and bittersweet respect. It had not left my neck since the day that Abuela had placed it there, except for practices and balls. I fingered the warm metal thoughtfully. It was odd to think that something so commonplace could hold so many memories.

While gazing absently at the keepsake, I was suddenly struck with an epiphany. Thoughts of my family and the day that I had been given the key triggered a memory of the mysterious box. I had forgotten it completely until now! I quickly resolved to end its mystery that night, in the half of an hour that remained until my peculiar rendezvous.

Fumbling in the dark recesses of my dusty clothes cupboard, I retrieved the beautiful wooden box and set it on my rumpled bed. With tremulous hands and a fluttering heart, I turned the little key and heard the tumblers of the lock fall into place. I opened the lid slowly, halting when startled by a soft melody that began to play. For a moment, I let go of the lid and listened to the familiar melody of _'Pregúntale a Las Estrellas'_.

Emboldened my old lullaby, I returned to my heart pounding task.

When the lid was opened, I could only gasp in shock.

* * *

**Authoress's Notes: **To celebrate the forty chapter milestone, I shall give you a hint about next chapter. It will be titled 'Pandora's Tear', and you may find out what is in the box. Oh yeah, two some bodies might just finally get around to meeting face to face, if you know what I mean… Just a little something to chew on till next update. (Cackles evilly, delighted with her newest dastardly scheme to keep you all on the edge of your seats till next chapter.) By the by, does Eric seem to be evolving more into the Phantom that we are all more familiar with? What did you think of how I started to change his character? (And I assure you, I'm not done. Not by a long shot.)

Gold lined paper and black ink were the appropriate stationary for a well to do gentleman at the time. As opposed to Eric's later use of black lined stationary and red ink. For reference to a selection of the aforementioned song, check out the chapter notes for chapter twenty nine.

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**Homeless-** The best? I am red like a fire engine here. (blushes) And yes, I am a twisty little soul. Is it the cold or the naked part that interests you?

**Kipper-** Yes, you are an unusual fish, but then again, I'm a pretty odd authoress… I did receive the e-mail about your pirate-able material, and I may consider grabbing my eye-patch. We'll see how it plays out, no? Yep, Eric is nutty (and been celibate for thirty-odd years), but I too watch L&O SUV. Perhaps that is why?

**Avid-** Si, you are indeed correct. I'm going to be a collage freshman next year, so you can make your guesses about my age.

**JPT-** Oui, Sorelli has some things to learn about life … whoops, wouldn't want to give anything away, no would I? Sure, who says you can't buy sanity? You can find it in your friendly grocer's freezer, in tubs labeled 'pecan praline ice cream'.

**Fish-** WHAT? No more proverbials? I'm melting, I'm melting! Oh well, at least I am constantly misinforming the huddled masses with my chapter notes. I think I confused Zerlina with Elvira? Urg. Can't research… need libretto… drat those nasty library check out limits!


	41. Pandora's Tear

**

* * *

Chapter Forty One: Pandora's Tear **_(alternately titled '_In a Box, With a Fox'_ or _'Foxes and Boxes'_)

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_

**Leah**

Tears threatened me for the first time in months.

I fought valiantly to block them, calling upon every reserve of strength that I possessed as I neared the grand foyer. Why on earth had I opened that silly box?

In my minds eye, I could still see every sparkling facet. The contents of the little chest had dredged up emotions that I had believed to be dead and buried for what seemed like ages.

"Most girls would be elated by so many jewels!" I chided myself in a silent, hollow voice. Each member of my family had purchased jewelry for me, and tiny notes had accompanied the baubles. They had been carefully wrapped and situated inside the silk-lined jewelry box.

There were enough gems in that little case to outfit any respectable woman of society for the rest of her life: a silver ring, several pairs of modest earrings, four delicate brooches, and serviceable set of jet-black mourning pieces. There were several strands of precious gems that I recognized as accessories for my hair, each string a different color. Every one was made of tiny stones and gold or silver links, brilliant with red rubies, blue sapphires, green emeralds, violet amethysts, or fiery opals, my favorite.

I began to open the creamy paper of the tiny packages that were attached to notes. Abuelo had given me a pair of scarab pendants, and he hoped in his choppy handwriting that I would enjoy them, considering how much I loved Egyptian history.

Henry's gift was an ivory bracelet, carved with wild, thorny roses. He wrote to say that he thought of me when he saw the bracelet, and that even the prickliest of flowers (or girls) can still be pretty. If I had not been in such a state of shock, I would have laughed at his uncanny ability to poke fun at me under any circumstance.

Abuela had sent me a delicate strand of pearls, saying that she knew I would grow into them as I became a lady. Each item failed to invoke the desired response in my heart, for though the jewelry had been meant to bring me joy, it only reminded me of all that I had lost. Mama's gift was the hardest to bear.

Her note was the largest by far, but at this point I was far too emotional to touch it. Anger, hurt, loss, and betrayal danced disturbingly in my gut. Had they thought that I would forgive them for leaving if they gave me a few pretty things? Damn my foolish curiosity! Even now, after all the pain within my heart, I still couldn't help but open her gift. As the paper fell away, an upsetting breath became caught in my tight throat.

She had given me a precious piece of my dowry, something that I had never expected to follow me after I left the house. I had only seen it once, but I remembered it well. She had once told me that the diamond necklace would be mine to wear on my wedding day.

It was a simple setting, as jewelry goes, but impressive and delicate. A flawless, tear-shaped diamond, nearly the size of my thumb, hung suspended from a fragile gold chain. As it lay there in its little velvet box, my throat began to constrict and tears finally began to form in my dry, confused eyes.

I regretted ever having remembered the jewelry box. Why had I opened this tonight?

Summoning my cold strength, I closed the lid and closed off my heart as I returned the distressing artifact to the bowels of my chest of drawers. I would not allow this relic from my old life interfere with the here and now.

I continued to tell myself this all the way to my destination.

As I skirted the flurry of movement and music in the grand foyer, I steeled myself against any more emotion tonight. I would be strong and struggle though dancing just long enough to appear polite, and then I would scuttle back to the safety of my little cellar. I only hoped my mysterious admirer wouldn't think me terribly rude.

But nearing the Lunar Sala, my dark and troubled thoughts were slightly dimmed by my inquisitive imagination. Familiar and mildly less distressing questions arose within me. Who was this man? Why could he possibly be interested in me? Did he have less than honorable intentions? Or did he truly find me attractive and wish to see me?

My heart began to pick up speed with every step closer to this meeting. By the time I entered the fashionably decorated room, it was banging a steady tattoo on my ribcage in an effort to escape my body all together.

But when I saw him, everything simply stood still.

**

* * *

Eric

* * *

**

"She seems to believe me." I reflected as we glided over the polished floor.

At first, the girl seemed shy and hesitant around me. As soon as I saw her, I had approached and asked her to dance, drawing upon several late nights of studying etiquette manuals for what must have passed as suave charm. But much to my chagrin, she did not extend her gloved hand. Instead, she had stood stock still for several seconds before bursting out her thoughts.

"My apologies Señor, but I do not even know your name! Twould be indecent."

I stiffened at her innocent request. She could not know my name! Every one in my life who had ever gained that secret had eventually found me useless and left. She could not leave! She was my chance to prove to myself that I was a human being. I deserved love, like anyone else!

How to answer, how to answer? I summoned up every ounce of my newly acquired 'gentleman's manners', and took a bit of confidence in my new apparel. I had soften the managers to the point where they were willing to provide me with a handsome little salary, and I had used my first allowance to make myself desirable as a nobleman. Luxurious black and white evening attire had done the trick tonight. I made a rather dashing figure for the first time in my life … if one could forget what lay beneath the mask, that is.

"She doesn't know Eric. She doesn't have an inkling." I attempted to silently calm myself. The voices mocked me and jeered my attempts to think, but I ignored them the best I could. "Just find something to say before she dies of boredom, you great dolt!"

With my most charming smile, (for I had worn the only mask I had that just barely exposed my lips. They were the most tolerable feature on my God forsaken excuse for a face, and I had wanted to be unhindered while speaking to her.) I replied.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I am afraid I cannot grace your enchanting lips with any name."

She seemed a bit taken a back by this, and then a bit perturbed. Oh, what had I been thinking when I began this whole mess?

"Might I inquire as to why, good Monsieur?" Her voice was laced with a hint of sharpness, and inwardly I cringed.

"You may. And I shall then respond to your inquiry thusly: There is more than one reason for a man to wear a mask." I whispered the last phrase softly, bending very near to her. It was an uncouth invasion of her privacy as we were nearly strangers, but I knew that my voice could effect people's emotions.

And perhaps my message was cryptic enough to satisfy her sense of propriety. If I had any hope that God would listen, I would have been reciting every prayer I knew. This had to work! She had to grow to care for me. This could not end before we had even said hello! All my plans and schemes would be for naught if I had no hope of ever finding a companion. Life was far too painful to navigate by myself.

"Are you a man in hiding then Señor?" I nearly jumped as she startled me from my thoughts. What was she talking about? Did she know that I …? "Perhaps a masked bandit or royalty in disguise?"

She was smiling. Had she found something amusing? It took a few nervous moments for me to grasp that she was being playful. My heart swelled with relief as she continued to joke. "No? Then perhaps you are El Zorro under that black mask?"

"I will neither dismiss nor confirm your suspicions, Mademoiselle." I returned her light-hearted tone. If she felt comfortable enough to make foolish conversation in my presence, then I had already won a small battle.

All at once, her smiling face turned thoughtful and searching. "I take it that you have your own reasons for remaining anonymous, Señor. I am willing to respect that, should you not wish to give me your name."

Hadn't she just been insistent on learning it? I could only hope that all women were not this confusing. It was a disconcerting thought, for this was the first time that I had ever actively perused a woman. That is, unless you included Mitra.

Mitra… With a slight shake of my head, I expelled such thoughts from my mind. "She is dead, Eric. Now there is a living, breathing girl in front of you. Think of her, you blithering nincompoop!" The voices added several insults of their own before her voice chased them back into the darker corners of my mind.

"But I must ask you what you should like to be addressed as." She piped up. "You had said in your letter that you hoped to make better acquaintances, and I cannot continue to simply call you 'Monsieur' if you wish to see me again." Apparently she found this humorous as well, for the corners of her mouth began to curl up, and the corners of her eyes to crinkle.

"Earlier, you addressed me as Señor. That will do nicely." She was obviously a bit frustrated, and I quickly sought out a distraction for her. I applied for her hand a second time and was rewarded with a charming smile.

We waited only moments before the current dance ended and a new one began, joining the crowd that gathered on the dance floor. It was a bit nerve wreaking to be in the midst of such a massive number of people, but my focus was fixed on a pair of bold grey eyes that peeked up at me demurely from underneath dark eyelashes. They made a startling contrast to her uncommon olive skin and black hair.

The girl wasn't terribly unattractive, I admitted to myself as the dance began. And those eyes still held a bit of mystery for me, sharp and twinkling with merriment as we began to grow a bit more accustomed to one another. Still, it took several dances to get that far.

But her little hand on my upper arm was not an unwelcome sensation, and I enjoyed several thoughts that were unbecoming of my new manners while feeling the movement of her small waist under my gloved hand. She was a fair dancer as well.

True, she was by no means a woman to fall in love with, but I definitely could have found a less pleasing creature on which to perfect my wiles. Perhaps it wouldn't take as long as I had thought to conclude my little experiment and move on to better and brighter horizons.

At least she had a little intelligence. She seemed well versed, and we even went so far as to discuss philosophy and politics while sipping champagne and resting on one of the empty balconies of the opera house. I had fabricated a mildly plausible excuse for my presence in the attic that night, and she actually seemed to accept the story. Our conversation had been going swimmingly, until she removed her mask.

"Señor, will you not also take off your mask? I must admit, I am rather curious to see the face of the daring vigilante that I have been dancing with." A spark of humor glittered in her expression, but I was momentarily dumb with horror. What could I do?

"Regretfully, Mademoiselle Iglesias, I cannot." An annoyed frown began to find its way to her lips. "In truth, you were correct with one of your earlier suppositions. I am indeed a man in hiding, and I would be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning it."

"Truly? Well, now I am more intrigued than ever. Wouldn't you please let me see you? Only for a moment?" She pleaded.

My temper began to rise, and the voices incited me to strike out or to flee at once, but I held my ground as best I could. "I am quite serious, Mademoiselle. Removing my mask would make you much akin to psyche and her box of death." I spoke gravely, without a hint of merriment as she searched my eyes with her own. They were like bores into my skull.

"Don't you mean Pandora, Señor?" Good! She had forgotten her whim about removing the mask.

"No, those are two different myths, Mademoiselle."

"Perhaps you are right." She gave me a small, self-depreciating smile. "It has been a few months since I have burrowed into Greek mythology. Perhaps I shall have to…"

Her gaze was fixed over my shoulder and her small mouth hung slightly agape. "Is something wrong?" I strained to discover the source of her shock. There were only dancing couples, for as far as the eye could see. Wait! That was it!

I was a bit surprised myself, for I had not really believed that my plan would come off so well. It had taken some careful maneuvering, but I had managed to 'persuade' that Comte she had been seeing to attend tonight with another dancer.

To be honest, little persuasion had been necessary. 'La Sorelli', as she so presumptuously titled herself, threatened to take the place of the current prima ballerina within a few years, if not a few months. Half of Paris had made eyes at her at one point or another.

But even though I had finally paired those two off, it had been a slim chance that my little 'experiment' would see them in such a crowd. Now she would be completely free of any bonds besides my own. Lady luck had taken my side for a change. I expected to turn to an emotional wreck of a girl and provide a convenient and comforting shoulder.

But surprisingly, Mille Iglesias merely appeared a bit flustered and a rather determined.

She had rejoined me on the dance floor with burning eyes that seemed to be carved from icicles. She had determination, I had to allow. She flung herself into the dancing and didn't leave my side for the rest of the evening. It crossed my mind that her behavior was very impolite.

Then again, I wasn't complaining.

* * *

_**Authoress's Notes**: Zorro, the masked bandit, was named for the animal called el zorro in Spanish. Give you a hint, its red and furry. In Victorian society, it was extremely rude to dance more than one or two dances with the person you were attending the dance with, unless the two of you were engaged. Even married couples were held to this funky rule. Weird, huh?_

_I hope I did justice to the first REAL meeting?

* * *

_

**Homeless:** Yeah, I kinda figured it was the naked. No real reason… hehe. I dunno, I may just end up putting something in here about him streaking around the lair, just so we can all have our odd little kicks at his expense. Poor Eric, voices in his head and a nutty authoress controlling his reality. Please cease to simmer … or don't…

**Kipper:** Cackles evilly. Yes, yes I am. But I'll do anything to avoid fish scales. (I've cleaned fish before, and let me tell you, I have no urge to do so again any time in the near future.) So here's the chap, hope you like it. Now get off of me ship, or I'll swab the deck with thee! (She may be taking this pirate thing a little too seriously...)

**Fish:** All my gratitude for the helpful edits, I shall rewrite that ASAP. As for the teaching gig, CELEBRATION! I wish I could send you real cheesecake to congratulate you. Unfortunately, this won't work, so cyber hugs in abundance. I am so very happy for you! & Thanks for the help with Carmen.

**Avid:** I am blushing like mad, dear. You have made my day, cause that was just the kind of vocab. I was hoping would come across in this story. As for everybody's favorite 'Fox', his is a surprising little dude, ain't he?

**JPT:** This is true, no freezers… then again, they did have ice cream parlours… Can't you just imagine a certain morbidly handsome figure sitting at the counter of an ice cream parlor and sipping on a root beer float? Ha! Hilarity abounds!


	42. My Beating Heart, P1

AHH! She's updated within a reasonable period of time for once in her short, nutty (and far too hormonal for the likes of normal society) life! Is the world coming to an end? What shall become of us? And what of Larry's hairbrush?

* * *

**Chapter Forty Two: My Beating Heart

* * *

**

…_Be still my beating heart  
Love is whispering your name  
There were years suffering in the dark  
Holding back the tears and pain...  
_

_-Gone Are the Dark Days, By Point of Grace (this band is an old favorite of mine. Gota love four-part female harmony!)_

**

* * *

Φ**_

* * *

_

**Leah**

I awoke to a painfully throbbing headache.

I could feel every one of my heartbeats pulsing angrily inside my skull like a miniature thunderstorm. The room spun violently when I began to move, and my stomach wobbled threateningly. Could I make it to the washstand before I vomited?

"I'll never do it again, I swear!" I whined to God, half awake and sorry that I had ever opened my eyes. "Just make it go away."

Speech did little to settle my stomach or my head, but the demands of the former far outweighed those of the later. With one swoop, I flew to my washbasin. I found my target just in time, becoming ferociously sick.

"By Christ's Church!" A curse I had overheard from one of Joseph's apprentices fell from my groggy lips thoughtlessly. It took me a minute to realize my profanity.

"Sorry!" I squeaked out, dizzily looking heavenwards and crossing myself.

What in God's name had possessed me to do it?

"It probably had something to do with seeing 'La' Sorelli in Philippe's arm, no?" A snide little voice in the back of my head goaded me on.

"Look at you! Sick and unkempt while she's probably sleeping in his arms. You were a fool to ever dream that anyone here would be interested in your heart and not your skirts, you idiot."

"Shut up." I grumbled uselessly as I tried to make my self more sober. When the racket failed to cease, I simply tried to ignore it. "I only wanted to get that image out of my head. I'll never do it again!"

The voice then began to have a hearty laugh at my expense. "Listen to yourself, girl! Wake up! You are talking to thin air, you ninny."

It is rarely a good idea to listen to little voices in your head. That is just the sort of thing that causes one to be hauled away to le maison des lunes.

It is even less prudent to pay attention to such a voice when it is laughing at you.

I was relieved to be rid of my inner conflicts as by the time I returned from emptying my washbasin in the latrines and giving it a good scrubbing. The world had regained some of its equilibrium, and I was left alone in my head to sift through my memories of the night before.

She had humiliated me intentionally, gaining my trust while knowing what I felt for him. And he was no better. He had merely sought to use me and discard me. He hadn't even been man enough to say goodbye to my face!

They had betrayed me.

They were no different from anyone else in my life. Why should they be?

"Will everyone hurt me like this, Lord? Is this all that I can look forward to in life? True, I knew that coming here meant that I was not likely to find a serious suitor or hope for a husband … but why must you hold out the bait and then rip it away?" With a frustrated cry, I hurled my thin pillow at the peeling wall, not caring if the damn thing burst at its ancient seams.

Seeing Philippe and Sorelli happy in one another's arms had been a treacherous assault on my fragile heart. I had been so reluctant to let them near it, so careful to keep it safe in the beginning. Where had my resolve gone? This was my fault, for I should never have grown so close to them. I should have left my soul within its strong walls, where it had been safe.

If only I had conceded to Philippe when he had asked! Months ago, he had covertly suggested that I spend the night in his bed. Oh, he had been a gentleman and phrased it in a much more inviting way, but I knew what he had been asking. Why had I refused? It could have been me in who slept safely in his arms tonight instead of that backstabbing … witch!

After that night, he had grown more and more distant. It was obvious to me now that his intentions had been less than honorable. I would have only been one of many flippant encounters in his life. But still, it didn't matter!

All that I could think of were his kind, endearing touches and his few gentle kisses. He had spent time with me of his own free will, as one must when one cares for someone. It had been wonderful to find someone, anyone, who made me feel the way he had.

For the first time, I had felt that I could be pretty. It had been marvelous to believe that I was someone that a man found worth his time. In his presence, the world seemed to be an almost cheerful place, even after the loss of my dance. Whenever I had been near him, my heart had always beat a little bit faster. He had made me want to keep trying.

Why had I let go of him?

"There was that little matter of your virginity." My inner voice piped up sarcastically. Try as I might to rid myself of the creature, it refused to be evicted from my thoughts. I had once explained this to Beth, only to have her repress a giggle and inform me that the voice was my conscience.

"Bloody conscience! I was never even asked if I wanted one!" Despite the foolishness of conversing with a possible sign of psychosis, I tried to counter its attacks. The time I had spent with my Abuelo and his philosophical cronies had given me a taste for debate.

Even if I was only arguing with myself.

Besides, would it truly have been such a loss if it meant gaining a little more time with Philippe? The mere thought of him brought me dangerously near to crying. How much was my purity really worth to me, knowing that there was a real possibility that I might never see a golden wedding band on my finger? Why hadn't I taken what I could get for it?

"Because you knew it was wrong, you goose!" Retorted the voice, wagging an invisible finger of admonishment in my general direction. "And you still do. That is, of course, unless you have truly become an empty-headed, flighty little chit who will take whatever she can get. You are better than that, aren't you, you slack-jawed twit?"

It is most definitely not a good sign when the little voices start insulting you.

"I have not!" Was the only response I could give. It didn't mean that I was no longer mourning all that I had lost, but I began to realize the painful futility of considering 'if only's'.

It is a particularly pathetic thing to loose an argument with a little voice in your head.

Tired and hung over, I returned to my squeaking bed and curled up, hugging my knees to my chest and fighting the urge to sink into the ground and die on the spot. Alcohol had not helped the situation one iota, despite what I had believed the night before. I had pilfered two extra bottles of cheap wine from the kitchens where the party's refreshments had been housed. I had slipped down and back quietly, in hopes of erasing the terrible evening from my head, after my escort had bid me goodnight.

My mind wandered into the foreign land of that commanding, mysterious creature. He had been wonderful throughout the night, though a bit forward from time to time. Then again, I secretly admitted, his easy disregard for convention had been rather thrilling. It felt dangerous and exciting to be near a man who seemed to be interested enough to take bold liberties with my person.

He had danced as closely to me as a lover would, only minutes after meeting me. He had whispered in my ear several times during the night, throwing propriety to the wind. He had even come very, very close to kissing me! The voice had slyly whispered that I ought to slap him, but my heart had been leading the dance between the two of them since the instant we walked out onto the dance floor. My conscience had eventually admitted to defeat and slunk off to a silent portion of my head while my feet remembered familiar steps.

It had felt incredible to be dancing again! It was not ballet, and I certainly could not express myself with the passion I once had in the solitude of an empty stage, but Oh! It had felt positively sublime to move to the music once more. Even better, I had a partner again!

True, 'Señor' was not Philippe, and I didn't have the heart to inform the silly man that his new title was simply the Spanish word for Monsieur. Yet this new man endangered a piece of my heart that had been undiscovered until he awoke it.

Not even the Comte had so affected my body. Señor's lightly veiled, respectful touches had stirred up a dormant portion of my soul, and caused my skin to flush at the thought of him even now. I had _enjoyed_ the feeling of his hand on my waist, and the sensation of his shoulder muscles flexing under the thin fabric of my glove. I had actually wished that he would continue his improper advances, _eager_ to be nearer to any part of him. A tingling in my stomach had shuddered violently whenever he looked at me with those unsettling eyes of his.

They were the deepest shade of brown that I could imagine, reminding me of damp earth. At one point in the evening, I had wondered naughtily about just what kind of plants might grow in such unusual soil… Strangely, there were also flecks of luminescent gold enshrined in his irises, reflecting and scattering the light that played over them.

It was strange. I was divided between wanting to investigate the seedlings he had planted in my heart, and needing to run from anything that was attractive, male, and stood on two legs. What sheer stupidity could possess me to want to bare my tender heart anew to a stranger who would surely abuse it, just as everyone else had? Why was it that I always seemed torn between two ends of a perilous spectrum?

Still, his presence had been the one bright spot in the darkness of my family's attempts to buy my forgiveness and the ballroom betrayal.

More confused than when I first awoke, I began to plan what I would wear to dinner in two night's time. He had been eager to see me again, and I was still doubtful about his intentions.

Yet in truth, the intentions that truly worried me were my own.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** It's not very long, nor is it action-packed, but I wanted to give this major change in Leah a little time to sink in in this chapter. What did you guys think of her inner conflict? 

(The funny bits about the advice on little voices were inspired by some story I read on another website. I think it was an X-men fic. **If it was your story that I found inspiration from, please let me know!** I don't want to make any presumptions about you letting my leach a little of your creative juice. If you want me to remove them or recognize you, I am putty in your hands, dear author or authoress. It has been a little while since I've read that story, but those lines just stuck with me.)

Oh, and here's a teaser for next update: There is some material that was inspired by a bumper sticker I once saw. "My mind is like a steel trap! (Prone to rust, and illegal in 48 states.)" Food for reviewing thought, dearies!


	43. My Beating Heart, P2

…_Be still my beating heart  
Love is whispering your name  
There were days suffering in the dark  
Holding back your tears and pain… _

_-Gone Are the Dark Days, By Point of Grace

* * *

_

**Chapter Forty Three: My Beating Heart, P.2

* * *

**

**Eric**

"Are we lost, Señor?" She asked, obviously amused.

It was such a comfort to have a companion to walk with. For the first time in my life, human contact had become a matter of course, though even after these last few months I still expected her to begin gibbering in terror or howling in disgust at having touched me despite the layers of her glove and my coat sleeve.

Yes, even now, several loud voices continued to shriek warnings in my head whenever I was within a few feet of her, as they did near any other human being. Physical contact remained a somewhat disturbing phenomenon, one that set me constantly on edge and expecting to be bodily harmed.

Perhaps God might even stretch out his hand from heaven and smite me down where I stood for having dared to assume too much humanity.

Needless to say, I rarely initiated such touching and was as jumpy as a rabbit in a snakes den for as long as it continued. All the while, I was painfully aware that my uncomfortable advances were sadly inexperienced at best.

Still, in the dim light of the sun that faded in the narrow strip of sky above us, I privately reveled in the reality of having a young woman on my arm.

"Of course not Mille! I merely thought you might enjoy a change of pace. We have been taking the same route back from the fencing hall since we began. Have a bit of faith in me."

"I have perfect faith in you." She countered with a sly giggle. "It is your memory that I distrust. Old age can dull even the sharpest mind." She did enjoy having a laugh at my expense from time to time, especially about my age. Honestly, I only had about fifteen years on the girl!

"That isn't what you were saying when I trounced you so thoroughly earlier. I seem to remember having won the majority of the matches this afternoon."

Though highly inappropriate, a private fencing hall had become one of our favorite trysts. It allowed us both a live partner and animinity, masking her feminine face and my hideous one behind the mesh of the regulation helmets.

"There you are with that senile memory again. Really, they shouldn't let you off of your estate grounds without an escort for the elderly."

"I assure you, Mam'selle, that my mind is like a steel trap!"

"Prone to rust and illegal inside the boundaries of the city of Paris?"

I could only laugh at her quick wit. Her smile and mildly abrasive tongue brightened my days. Unfortunately, we soon spotted the Opera House, and I was left alone after a quiet goodbye with only a touch of her fingers on my coat sleeve.

Watching her go, I half wished that I could have persuaded her for a bit more, perhaps a squeeze of her hand in parting. The idea was uncomfortable, yet thrilling.

It struck me in that moment that her presence had made quite an impact on my solitary lifestyle. The man I had been four months ago could not have conceived of using the words 'only a touch' together in a singular sentence.

She had open up a world of magic for me. Me, the master magician himself! Touching, nay, merely looking at another human being in the eye without palpable fear, had been such delightfully foreign experiences that I had nearly died of shock the first time she permitted me to do so. But in the months that passed, I had not found the pleasure of the experience to fade from familiarity.

I could not wait until I could share such things with someone I loved!

Throughout the past several months of seeing the girl, I had often wondered if all women were so irritatingly complex. One minute, she would be reserved and prim, and in the next she was open and curious, nearly flirtatious. I could never quite unravel the secret of her personality, for it seemed that I could never quite predict her moods or reactions at any given moment. How was I to win her if I couldn't understand her?

"Why are you trying at all?" The voices sometimes nagged me. "You know that she'll never be smitten with you once you show her your face, you abomination! Why are you trying to prove that you are human when we all know that you will fail? You are only a monster, and no woman in her right mind will ever care for you."

I hated to admit defeat, especially to the voices. "What about Azadeh? She didn't mind my curse."

"She doesn't count, you fool!" They had always replied. "She wasn't IN her right mind! The child was a lunatic!"

It is a frustrating thing to be outwitted by the voices in your own head.

* * *

_**Notes:** Short chap, but please do not stone authoress, lest she coax Eric to Punjab you. She just might, cause preparing for collage is stressful, it is nearly 1:30 in the morning, and she is grumpy. Beware the wrath of the one eyed, popsicle eating, sneezing, wheezing, hormonal authoress in a purple bathrobe. Grr._

_Responses on the next update, cause I'm too tired now._


	44. My Beating Heart, P3

…_Be still my beating heart  
Love is whispering your name  
There were days suffering in the dark  
Holding back your tears and pain…_

_-Gone Are the Dark Days, By Point of Grace_

**

* * *

Chapter Forty Four: My Beating Heart, P.3

* * *

**

**Eric**

As soon as she was out of sight, I set off in search of a cure.

Much as I enjoyed fencing, both for the sake of the art itself and for the company in which it was practiced, the sport did little for my accursed face. The exertion caused me to sweat profusely, and perspiration irritated the delicate skin that covered my God-forsaken skull.

The wig I wore didn't help matters one iota. The rough underside scraped my tender scalp and the glue solution that I used to affix the expensive hair-piece to my skin sometimes caused me to develop rashes. Though these afflictions were bothersome, I had learned to cope with the facts of my 'condition' years before.

Unfortunately, the increasing time that I spent in Mlle. Iglesias's company had caused new difficulties to arise. Hours occupied with sweat soaked pursuits had vexed my skin in a new and exceptionally painful manner. Because I was required to wear my mask for longer and longer, whenever I was in her presence, it had rubbed against the already agitated skin incessantly.

Now, instead of the paper thin, yellow-gray skin that was usually stretched across my facial bones, there was a series of reddish-purple welts. I had a sneaking suspicion that they were infected, for they sometimes broke open and secreted a sludge-like puss.

Perhaps it was for the best that the girl had not been keen on intimacy this evening, for she often became very enthusiastic when amorous and no doubt would have caused my black prison to further chafe my injuries while our mouths were … otherwise occupied. Tonight, my face was on fire, and each lesion sent jolts of pain throughout my body. I knew that I was in dire need of a medicinal salve, but the difficulty of procuring it had stayed my hand till now.

There was only one man that I could turn to: Dr. Giry.

Under any other circumstances, I would have found another means to my desired end, but I had no other option.

I would be lucky to reach the place by eleven o'clock on foot, but I distained using any other means of transportation. It was far too risky, even with my newly acquired fedora tipped low to conceal the slightly reflective nature of my ebony mask. I hated the sensation of eyes that followed me and stared at me as though I were an artifact on display.

"I suppose it is a blessing that the man is in my eternal debt." I muttered to myself as I strode through the quickly darkening alleyways on my way to St. Elizabeth's hospital.

I had met the man while traveling aimlessly after Azadeh dismissed me from the palace in Persia. He had been in search of a cure for his dying brother, Jules Giry, and I had had nothing better to do after being discarded like a dirty rag by the one person I had hoped had learned to care for me. I had returned to France with him and done what I could for the infirm man simply because it had felt indescribably wonderful to still be needed by someone. It had not even mattered that the man was a complete stranger. I simply needed to assure myself that there was still some purpose to my diseased existence.

Despite my all of my vast medical knowledge and nearly two years of my very best efforts, Jules Giry had succumbed to the disease. I would have left the country, frustrated and useless, had it not been for his daughter. Margosha (little Meg to her dotting mother, Luda) became afflicted with the same infirmity as her father, and her family's pleas for my aid had softened my discouraged heart. I had been able to save the child, and both Dr. Giry and Mame Jules had offered their lives in gratitude for my help.

Little did they know how dearly it would cost them.

When I had discovered that a second brother of Dr. Giry was employed as the head of matinence at the Garnier, I jumped at the opportunity to acquire such a wonderful place of residence. No one would bother me, or gawk at my misfortune, and I would be surrounded by music constantly! It had taken a good deal of persuasion, but he had finally been convinced to adapt the old smuggling tunnels to my specifications and construct a pleasant little den for me between the double retaining walls in the fifth cellar.

I had seen little of Dr. Giry since the day I took up residence in my new abode, and even less of Luda and Margosha, who lived in his household after Jules passed away. The man had taken care of the occasional business transaction for me, but I had not spoken with him in years. I was a bit anxious about his reaction to my sudden reappearance in his life, but any qualms that I had about disrupting him paled in comparison to my pain.

I continued to tell myself this as I opened a little used back door of the hospital.

With practiced stealth, I made my way to a familiar office and waited inside for the occupant to return. It was nearly an hour before the little door opened again to reveal my old acquaintance. He was naturally quite shocked to see me, but after several minutes of tedious explanations he began to calm himself enough to revert to a professional outlook on the situation.

"Great Scott man! You nearly gave me an attack of the heart, popping out of the shadows like that. Why don't you just knock like everybody else?"

"Dr., I do not wish to reiterate my apologies."

I was attempting to be polite. A gentleman would do such things in this situation, and that was my objective and the reason that I had come in the first place. If I had not been conducting my little experiment and trying to prove my humanity, I never would have had reason to come to him.

"I simply wish to know if you are willing to help me or not."

"Of course, my boy! Of course! You know that I am always willing to help you."

"Thank you, Monsieur." She would be proud of me, I was sure. The girl believed me to be a refined gentleman, and I was slowly learning the part.

"It is nothing worth mentioning. Now, let me see what is troubling you." The comfortable little man adjusted his reading glasses and straightened expectantly, his dark skin reflecting his mother's Arabic descent.

WAS HE MAD?

I would never show my face to anyone! Never again, not after Mitra. Only Mlle. Iglesias had any hope of such a terrible event, and that was only because she was a test subject of sorts, a dispensable experiment. But Dr. Giry was the closest thing that I had to a friend since the day that De Tham died. I would not allow my curse to poison a meaningful relationship, for they were hard won rarities in my miserable life.

"I will do no such thing! You know of my affliction, Giry! Why do you seek to stare at it? Are you curious? Am I still some sort of freakish attraction?"

Anger began to pulse in every vein. I was not a commodity, to be used and sold and goggled at! Damn it all, I was trying to be a human being!

Giry must have recognized the signs of my inner fury, for he sought to placate me. "Calm yourself, man! I want no such thing. I only need to diagnose your problem before I prescribe the medication."

"Like Hell you do! I am perfectly capably of self diagnosis."

"I can't do that, boy. It's unethical, even though I'd trust you with my skin."

"No!" I felt trapped and fearful. If he saw the evil that my mask concealed, he would surely sever any connections that we shared. No sane person had ever willingly remained in my repulsive presence after the nauseating sight.

"Good God! I'm a doctor, Monsieur. I'm sure it can't be anything worse than I've seen in my lifetime." He spoke in a jesting tone, but I fought to believe him.

Could it be that I could trust him? Could someone truly look upon my deformity without fear? The spark of hope that the girl had ignited in me began to grow into a tiny flame, fanned by Giry's repeated assurances.

I had to try!

With infinite reluctance, I released the cords that held my prison in place. With my back turned to him, I wavered in my resolve. Could I go through with this? What was I doing?

"Are you sure you want to see this, Doctor?"

"Yes, yes. Come along now, boy. I have other patients to see tonight." He replied in an exasperated tone.

When I didn't turn around, he continued.

"I'll even set the bottle on my desk for you. One quick look over, and it's yours." I heard the light tap of a glass jar being placed on the corner of his desk.

"I can do this, I can do this…" I repeated to myself as I slowly turned around.

The expression on his face stopped me dead.

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_**Notes:** Well, I think Larry found his hairbrush … though there's still that problem of finding a use for it (Vegitales, what can you do) and I'm not sure about that whole end of the world thing, but it seems that I'm producing these short chapters a lot quicker. Also, 'My Beating Heart' is going to last for four updates I think. Kinda drawn out, but the updates are quicker! I'm trying to get a lot of material written before the end of August, when I leave for collage._

_No stoning, or else.

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**Pirate Pants-** He is an arrogant nitwit, and the nincompoop thing was a favorite line of mine as well.  Mmm, streaking…I am truly going to find a way to get that in here, and when I do, I'll dedicate the chapter to you. And yeah, gentlemen wouldn't do that, but good luck telling Philippe (or Eric) about that.

**JPT-** Your insight on the contrasts was right on the money! Yay, somebody picked up my crazy undertones! As for the mythology, both of those stories will end up mentioned in the plot, so keep your eyes peeled. (On second thought, please refrain from peeling your eyeballs, cause then you couldn't read the next chapter… and it might hurt a bit too.) Nope, not exactly a mortal wound, but what Eric does next just might be … whoops, clumsy me, spilling the beans on an upcoming chapter … oh well (she grins maliciously)

**Fish-** I laughed really hard about that thing with the French poem. I bet he would too! (Must edit! So little time, SO FEW BRAINCELLS! ARG!) Thanks for all your help with finding my little faults, it means the world to me! And yes, the pace is a little jumpy for the next three chapters, but it's a span of time that I couldn't figure out how to write. I will probably work more material in between those gaps when I rework the piece… If I ever finish it that is…

**Kipper, the salty one-** You and your adages make me laugh and brighten my obsessive-writing-filled days. As for Eric being erm.. pervy… I duno, do you think ch. 43 was pervy?

**Avid-** Congratulations, you have just joined the elite few to have made correct predictions about my twisted plot line. Yay for Newsboys! I was listening to Audio A's song 'My Chevette' and wishing I had a chevette instead of my ancient mercury sable named Betty Lou. (My brother named her, the poor car.)


	45. Lips and Wings and Secret Things, P1

OK, darlings, I've gota warn you about this chapter. (No, it's not a NC-17 warning. Yeesh, give me a little credit here.) The warning is that this chapter skips several years ahead into the story. I have some ideas about the plot line for the time span during those years, but it's not essential to the story as a whole, and there is still a lot of the story that I've got left to write. Also, that part of the story is the least developed, I'm not quite sure how to write it, and it's not incredibly important in the grand scheme of things. Mostly, I want to get on to the interesting part of the story. (Don't tell me that you can't wait for things to get exciting too!) I think that Leah and Eric do a decent job of explaining what went on during those missing years, so I'll let them have at it.

Oh, and don't worry, you'll find out what happened with Eric and Dr. Giry … eventually! I shall infect you all with ants in your pants! Muahaha!

(Cackles with maniacal glee in anticipation of the success of her ongoing evil scheme: Taking over the world! …. Pinky, are you thinking what I'm thinking? I think so Brain, but what would we do with the monkeys when we're done? … whoops, wrong evil plan…)

Um, and now back to our regularly scheduled programming…

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_This chapter is dedicated to JoaniePonyTail and the gilled girl wonders, Fish and Kipper. Keep your eyes peeled for cameos..._

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**Chapter Forty Five: Lips and Wings and Secret Things, P.1**

**Leah**

The woman was barmy as a bat.

Despite the fact that it was late July, Mme. Bygler insisted that we leave the window shut. After the first summer of this unrelenting, suffocating heat, I had determined that my supervisor was in fact 'cracked as a crawfish'.

One might think that I would be used to the annual evil of three months spent in the oppressive humidity of the costume department. After all, one might recall that having turned twenty five a few months ago, this would be my ninth year under her beady, squinting eye. Therefore, one might surmise that I had grown used to this yearly form of torture.

One might also belong in la maison de fous.

The years spent under my wizened taskmistress had only further confirmed my suspicions of her lunacy and reinforced my dislike of any thing involving a needle and thread. My recent efforts on the costumes for the latest upcoming production had done nothing to improve these opinions.

My back ached from spending the last few days bending over the cutting table, and the muscles in my neck were stiff from recent hours of concentration on my tiny stitches. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, tingling and causing my high necked blouse to itch fiercely. The thin, rough cloth chaffed my skin in the most uncomfortable manner, causing me to shift in my hard, wooden seat. On days like this, I sometimes secretly wished for the expensive, silky garments that had once filled my wardrobe.

After a few seasons of living at the opera, the clothing that my Abuela had given me had slowly worn out. Dresses became frayed and stained, and most had been discarded by my twentieth birthday. I had grown out of nearly all of my things. My height had never increased, much to my chagrin, and I remained a slight five foot five inches. Though I had never acquired the fashionable ideal of a woman's voluptuous curves, my chest and hips had expanded as I had grown.

As a girl, I had wished for such maidenly assets, but now they were merely a bother, an extra several pounds to be constrained by my constantly worn out, natty corsets. I rarely had the money to replace the things, so they were threadbare affairs a great deal of the time. My clothing was no longer au courant or lavish, for instead of frequenting my Abuela's modistes, I now obtained my things from second hand shops or made them myself.

It had taken several years for me to make peace with my new life. I was not truly poor, but I was certainly not rich either. My salary was not excessive by any means. It was enough to support me if I was frugal, and there was usually enough left at the end of the month to put a little something away in a small account that I had opened for myself.

The account that my family had left for me was something I occasionally thought about, but the thought was always dismissed as soon as it arose. It was filthy, tainted by the fact that those traitors had tried to buy my forgiveness. In my eyes, Henry was the only family I had left, for Mama and my Abuelos had been dead to me since the day they left me behind. They had forsaken their promise to always be there for me. Like the little jewels that lay hidden somewhere in their dusty box, the bribe they had left me was as good as blood money. I would not touch it.

I sometimes found myself secretly longing for the life that I had so foolishly left behind me all those years ago. What a dense little goose I had been, believing that some far fetched dream could ever come true! I had left the safety of my home, the love of my family, and the comfort of my title, and all for what?

To sit in a stuffy little room for hours on end, trapped with a lunatic who had the body warmth of a reptile, three more hours of mind-numbing needle work, and a skull-splitting migraine.

_That_ was my hard won prize. That was all that I could ever hope for. This was the dream that I had once stupidly claimed could take the place of husband in my life. Those ignorantly uttered words had unintentionally become a self-fulfilling prophecy over the years. After the disastrous Philippe incident, few men had been part of my life.

Apparently the Comte, being the thoughtful bloke that he was, had let word out that I my interests did not lean in the general direction that many of his peers might otherwise assume.

I had not known at the time whether to be grateful or furious, but I knew now that I ought to have been the latter. Only a handful of men had sought me out after that night, and all but Señor had only been skittish boys who were too timid to find more interested partners. After a few dull evenings in my presence, I had bolstered their courage enough enough for them to seek out other partners.

Even he had lost his fiery interest in me after a few months. For nearly nine years, to the day, our relationship had only consisted of occasional sparing at a fencing hall or the rare dinner at a quiet restaurant. His kisses had become chaste, then nearly non-existent. At the same time, I often wondered about the state of his sanity.

That is not to say that I believed him insane for not caring for me, but rather that his personality took a strange turn about four months after we began to see one another. He remained suave and gentile, even when distant, but grew almost … _morbid_ as the years went on.

Subtle changes in his sense of humor, and the fact that he would sometimes talk to himself when he thought I was not listening disturbed me at first. He became obsessed with death, making inappropriate and morbid comments at the worst times. He even purchased black-lined mortuary paper to use as stationary.

His odd habits had taken a little while to get used to, but I had slowly learned to accept them. I do believe that I would have accepted it if he took a liking to murder, for I desperately clung to the last shreds of male affection that I was ever likely to know. I was not growing any younger, and it was rare for a woman to marry at my age. Beth, Hortense, Amanda, and Alana had all said their vows years ago, so even now I was still determined not to ever loose Señor entirely. Yet I had accepted my fate.

By the time I turned eighteen, I knew that no man would ever take me for a wife.

I knew that God would be the only suitor that I would ever have.

That thought was the only one to give me some measure of comfort.

I had fought so valiantly with my inner thoughts, battling to keep that hope alive. At first, I had denied the obvious truth that men simply found me unattractive. Then I had raged against the thought of ending up as a lonely old spinster. Marriage was a woman's purpose in life, and motherhood her only real goal. Those roles were the keys to the very definition of womanhood.

Something deep within me had broken on the day when I had finally admitted defeat and given up hope of ever wearing a little band on my finger.

There had been a short few weeks the year I turned twenty two, when I had harbored an unspoken hope that Joseph might have noticed me. In his usual friendly manner, he had paid me an offhanded compliment and I had interpreted it to mean more than it should have.

During that wonderful little respite from reality, I had often dreamed of the simple silver wedding band that he might present to me, knowing that he could not afford gold or diamonds. When he learned of my delusion, he had made it clear that friendship was the extent of our relationship, and the last vestiges of female hope guttered out of my soul. I eventually learned to accept that friendship, and we had both chosen to forget my foolishness.

Fool was an excellent description of my life as a whole. I had been a perfect little ass; running away from all that God had given me to 'chase my dream'. How I wished that I had not left my home, my family!

"If wishes were wings, you'd be flying, girl." Came the familiar sound of Mme. Giry's exasperated voice from the corners of my memory. The old expression was one of her favorites, and though I was no longer a part of the corps, her reprimands and stiff advice were apparently capable of transcending any boundary.

The affection of the Giry clan had been the one assurance in my youth. Despite all that now separated me from them, Madame, Monsieur, Meg, and Beth had never ceased to care for me and had never left me lonely. True, Mme. Giry was still as cool and reserved as she had been when I was a member of the corps, and Tio Giry had never been around a great deal, but I knew that it was simply their way. Besides, the girls were still like surrogate sisters for me. Meg, Beth, Alana, Amanda, and Hortense still included me in their lives and their nightly conversations, and I spent every morning in the comforting presences of Beth and God, high above a sleeping Paris.

I sighed with relief when the last hours of my work were over at last. Submitting my finished work to Mme. Bygler, I paid no attention to her as she scrutinized my mistakes in a voice that was loud enough to enlighten the entire room. Though she was ancient and shrunken, the woman still had a set of lungs. She finally ceased her noisemaking, and as she made another inspective circuit of the five other girls that were still hard at work, I glared at her back and cursed her softly before rushing out the door.

When I was younger, I would never have dreamed of actually doing such an impolite, tactless thing. (Well, I may have dreamed about it just a little, but dreaming and doing are two different things.) Perhaps I _was_ becoming pessimistic. Beth had expressed concerns about my attitude becoming more cynical several times over the years.

Happy to be free of Bygler's clutches, I escaped the opera house and headed for the stables.

Auntie Joanie (for I had come to call her by the name that Beth and Meg were accustomed to) had given me a short list of groceries to be picked up in the market that night. None of the boys were about when I arrived at Cleopatra's stall, so I saddled her myself. The good natured horse gave me a placid glance and went back to her hay until I had finished.

I braced myself against the wall (in a very unladylike fashion) and hoisted myself into her creaking saddle. Though it had taken me some time to do so, I had gradually learned to be at ease with riding. As calmly as her mother and grandmother before her, Octavia's granddaughter plodded on with her side saddle burden, out of the dim stables and into the light of the late afternoon.

"Perhaps Beth was right about my attitude." I pondered. "I could not tell you. Then again, it is not an easy thing to be objective in observing the changes in ones own character." The only thing that I knew with certainty was that the little girl I had been nine years ago was as dead as anything under a headstone.

Perhaps my morbid wonderings were prompted by the cemetery that I was riding past. In another graveyard, not far away from the Garnier, my surrogate family would be visiting a grave today.

Today was the anniversary of the death of Dr. Giry. He had died nine years ago, as the result of a heart attack late one night. Though it had been well known that he had possessed a weak heart, no one had ever learned what caused his demise. I had mourned his passing for a few days myself that year, for the man had been very kind to me during the dark days of my recovery. His memory still held a fond place in the back of my heart.

His family, however, was a bird of an entirely different color. After his death, Mame Jules and her 'little Meg' had come to the Garnier. They were his deceased brother's wife and child, and he had cared for them until his untimely demise.

Margosha (for no one but her mother referred to her as little Meg, to avoid confusion with her cousin) had taken my place in the academy and her mother had been employed as a box keeper. She was, in fact, the keeper of what I privately referred to as 'my box', box five. She had put a stop to my late night drawing there, and was rude and pompous and self important.

Needless to say, I was not fond of her.

We finally reached our destination, for I was startled out of my secret daydreams by a voice that I was much more fond of. This voice was attached to a throat, and the throat resided in the body of one of my favorite venders, Mme. Olivia. Middle aged and very kind, she was a warm acquaintance and married to a respectable man, a fishmonger. Her sister, Mme. Allegra, was the shopkeeper who supplied a great deal of the costume department's fabric and sewing notions. Both women were very friendly, even allowing me to address them by their first names.

Mme. Oliva was the proprietress of a modest little shop that carried spices, sweets, and teas, among other things. Her shop smelled of her husband's salty little fish and a faint trace of dusty spice that always made me want to sneeze, and she smelled of cinnamon. The walls were lined with hundreds of little bottles, bags and tins, and one wall was covered in its entirety by hundreds of little wooden drawers filled with spices.

Once Cleopatra was secured to a hitching post, I heeded Mme. Olivia's warm call of welcome and entered her shop, causing the little bell above the door to jingle.

We chatted for a bit before I made my purchases, and she slipped a small chocolate into my hand along with my change. She was a sweet woman, for she did this occasionally once she learned of my affection for the things.

A few years past, I had given into a heavy temptation and bought an entire pound of the maddening goodies for myself, wiping out that month's tiny bank deposit. Chocolate had been one of my private weaknesses for ages, and I hadn't had any since coming to the Garnier. When she had seen my purchase and inquired about such an unusual errand for the kitchens, I had let her in on my indulgence.

She had merely smiled and given me a knowing nod. On my next trip, she had quietly included a small chocolate in the bag with my purchases, saying that she had been needing someone to sample her incoming shipments and besides, I ought not eat so many at a time.

"Once on the lips, forever on the hips, dearie." She had quoted in her charming British accent.

There had been a grin on her face throughout the entire matter, and though I hated the idea of charity, it had seemed wrong to refuse. In return, I sometimes spent a free evening cleaning the shop for her. It was nice to know someone outside the opera house.

Bidding her a warm farewell, I clambered back onto Cleopatra and covertly slipped the chocolate into my mouth. My heart lightened, I hummed a little tune from the last performance and eagerly anticipated a little nap before dinner.

_Little did I know that my return to the opera would set in motion the events that would radically change my life…_

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**Authoress's Notes:** Can anybody say "Dun, dun, dun!"? Cause I can! Guesses on what is waiting for her, anybody?

♪Oh, and did ya'll understand what happened with Eric and the good Dr.? Maybe I'm the one who's thoughts are becoming morbid … yep, some of them are, and this is not the last instance of death in the story … Oh my, there I go again with my terrible habit of dropping hints… (evil grin and cackle) But be at ease, (as much as you can be with me writing anyhow) I will tell you that neither Eric nor Leah are targets of my killing spree.

♫ (Hey Fish, Look! Mme. Giry and Little Meg … Leroux style! I've got the best of both worlds. I can have my cake and eat it too! Woot.)

♪Oh, and here's some food for thought for those of you who are waiting for the Persian to pop out of the proverbial woodwork, (Fish, I think the cycle has restarted, aren't you glad?…giggle.) go and re-read Eric's description of Dr. Giry. Then ponder. You might just find the answer… Good luck!

♫Fish, Kipper, and Joanie, did you find your cameos? Does anybody else want in on the story? Faithful reviewers, lend me your ears ... oh whoops, I meant send me your theories... In the real world, I am rather deaf too... New readers, if you reveiw, you might find yourself in here as well, cause I've got a few new charecters who need names in the near future...

**Responses: next chapter. I seem to end up posting late at night recently, and finding my brain incapable of responding at such an ungodly hour of the night. Or in this case, early morning, for it is about 5:00 in the A.M., and I have been typing since about ten o'clock last night.**

**Oh, and I am wearing my bright pink bathrobe today.**

**That is all.**


	46. Lips and Wings and Secret Things, P2

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Chapter Forty Six: Lips and Wings and Secret Things, P.2

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**Eric**

The conflict inside me was reflected on the shimmering surface of the pistol.

On days like today, I often wrestled with the thought of using the little thing. The opposing emotions within confused me and caused me the kind of pain that I had sworn I would leave behind nine years ago.

I had spent the day and most of the previous night consumed by guilt, shame, and my pitiful attempts at apathy, fiddling with life and death in front of my flickering fireplace. I had only left once, to watch the little flock of Girys make their exodus from the Garnier to the Cimetiere Lachaise and wallow in my culpability for their sorrow.

Bliant Giry had died that night. His weak heart had failed once he beheld my repulsive excuse for a face, and I could not find it in my heart to blame the man. Azadeh had always said that I looked like death on two legs, and Giry's reaction had only forced me to admit the truth of her jests. Indeed, he had been the second victim of my terrible curse. I could no longer find an excuse to hide the reality of what I was.

Death.

Yes, I was death itself, and had spent my life after that night growing accustomed to the idea. Mlle. Iglesias had told me ages ago that I was becoming morbid, and I had inwardly chuckled.

The girl had no idea.

If she only knew how I lived, much less what I was, the chit would flee in terror. My little hole in the dirt had become a sort of tomb in its own right, for my chamber was hung with funerary drapery and decorated with my own lengthy re-composition of Dies Irae, the Latin mass for the dead. I had abandoned my ancient sleigh bed in favor of a coffin long ago.

If the world was so determined to call me ghost or demon, and if my face was in itself a harbinger of death, why should waste my life fighting the obvious?

After that night, I had embraced the truth of my existence and allowed the voices in my head to run rampant. I now ruled the Garnier with an iron fist, having cowed those two imbeciles into abject submission. I occasionally enjoyed terrorizing the cast and crew with what some had named my 'terrible death's head'.

Of course, I never allowed them to do anything more than catch a fleeting glimpse of my unspeakable visage. Experience had proven that my face brought death to all who dared to come near it. Mitra had died trying to escape it, and Giry had followed suit. The gut wrenching apparition was, in a sense, the root of my power, for anyone who gazed upon it lost their life and entered my domain. All things dead and dying were mine and mine alone, for I was death! It was wonderful to wield ownership of something again, of anything.

Yet despite the empowering nature of such a hideous weapon, I chose to conceal it. It was an unpleasant thing to see the expressions on the faces of those who suffered from its evil.

And much as I secretly despised my employees for walking freely in the light while I was locked away, I had no desire to kill useful components of the finely tuned opera house machine. For the most part, I grew to enjoy my new identity as one of the living dead, reveling in the dark power that I possessed.

There were, however, always frustrating days such as this. Today the guilt of my crimes returned, ironically, to haunt the 'phantom of the opera' himself. Though I had long ago sworn off my attempts to believe that I could lead a normal life and feel emotion like any other man, I could not ever be completely free of such ideals.

I often railed at God, denying his existence and refusing to allow his moral codes constrain me. I shook off any bonds to the rest of the race of men that constrained me to care for the well being of anyone but myself. I was successful a great deal of the time, but guilt and emptiness still reared their heads within me on occasion. They preyed upon the small sliver of my soul that still desperately clung to its hopes of humanity, despite my best efforts to eradicate the stubborn thing.

Perhaps I could have succeeded in my extermination efforts if I were to stop seeing the girl. She was the only living, breathing creature that I could still bring myself to contact, save Mame Jules. I could justify my interactions with the gullible old woman, for I required her services to procure sustenance and make business arrangements. The girl though … she was the one indulgence from my days of hope that I could not bring myself to part with.

True, our little relationship was not as it once was, for I no longer allowed myself to touch her as I longed to. She was the only creature that I could not sully with my dark stain, and the only person to which I had not been able to apply my new fond philosophy of taking what I wanted from humanity, others be damned. I could not find it within me to taint her lips with those of a living corpse, even if she was still ignorant of my sinister secret.

My inability to take what I desired from her irked me to no end. Despite the fact that my thirty eighth year had begun that past January, my body had never known any woman's caress, except for her juvenile kisses and cuddles. Perhaps it was purely an unshakable sense of gratitude for her unknowing kindness that stayed my hand from taking advantage of her, but any kind of thankfulness stood directly in the face of the new mottos I had attempted to carve out for myself. If I could only let go of the man I had been all those years ago, I might have been able to act on my desires.

But the letting go never occurred. Her presence became more and more frustrating as the years passed by, for I could take her at any moment, but could not bring myself to do so. In an attempt to forget the girl, I began to see less and less of her. I could not give her up completely, as she was as addictive as any drug, but I ceased to kiss or touch her for fear of loosing my precarious grip on self control.

Besides, if I were to obtain my heinous goal, she would surely see my face. I knew that I could not bear to see her unblinking eyes staring up at me from the grave. While I certainly did not love the little chit, she was still a pleasant companion from time to time, and the only one I was ever likely to have.

"Besides, Eric," I wondered aloud, "whatever would you do with your spare time if she died?"

I had a point.

When I was uninspired to work, I often watched her go about her day. It was purely due to sheer boredom, but had eventually become a sort of mildly interesting sport over time. Tired of toying with my demise, I set down the little gun and headed for the subterranean lake and my rowboat, intent on finding something to take my mind off of my guilt and shame.

"She ought to be back from her errands." I mused as I took my seat at the oars.

After a little searching, I found her scurrying towards the commissary with several large bundles in her arms. Theed had obviously sent her out for spices again, and the two took up chattering.

Perhaps when the girl was done with her errands, she would go out to sketch for a while. I slightly hoped she would. It was rather pleasant to watch her work with her charcoals and chalks. And beyond that, her excursions were one of the few excuses I made to escape the gilded cage of my opera house.

She often frequented local parks and cafés, sketching for hours and oblivious to my well concealed presence. Sometimes I would pretend, as I watched her from a safe distance, that I was a normal man secretly perusing a normal woman. It was a bit more work than simply observing her from within box five's golden statue, but from time to time I found the fresh air inviting.

When Mame Jules had put a stop to her routine visits to my box, I had not interfered. The widow nearly believed that I was a God incarnate, after I saved her 'Little Meg', and guarded box five like a rabid bulldog. I was not about to put a stop to such a useful behavior, and besides, I had often worried that Mademoiselle Iglesias might somehow discover the opening to my secret compartments during the great amount of time she spent there.

Once in a while, I wondered what I would do if she were ever to discover that 'the phantom' and I were one and the same. Due to this irrational paranoia, and the more substantial risk of someday being discovered, I frequently altered my tunnels and secret entrances. Would she still come to me if she knew who I was? _What_ I was?

"Of course not, you great dolt! No one would." I muttered under my breath.

As I listened to make sure that neither woman had heard me, the girl gave a slight jump and a little squeal. For several moments afterwards, she simply sucked in air, unable to speak as she stared blankly at Theed. It would have been so wonderful to have been able to tease her about such an uncharacteristic moment of silence, for she was usually quick with her dry humor and pessimistic tongue.

The cook also seemed to find the matter amusing, laughing heartily while Mlle. Iglesias caught her breath.

"Are you sure?" She managed to squeak out in a tiny voice. "She is … and she's …"

"Aye lass, as we speak." The older woman replied with a smile.

"Dios mio…" whispered the girl as she stood dumbstruck in the middle of the kitchen.

With a sudden burst of speed, she embraced Theed tightly and ran from the room as though the hounds of Hell were on her heels. I could barely keep up, and nearly missed her when she turned down an ill lit hallway to a stage door of the rehearsal stage. There she stood silently, her eyes bright and shining. She was breathing shallowly, and her lips were cracked and flecked with spittle.

But she failed to keep my attention the moment that the door was opened, for the voice that poured out from that door was familiar and roughly beautiful. It spoke of sadness and loss, and my heart stirred to hear another express the emotions that were hidden inside my own soul. It was a woman's voice, and though it was poorly trained, I could feel the pull of its potential even now. After a few desperate minutes of struggling through my passages, I found myself at the lookout just above the doorway where Mademoiselle Iglesias stood and nearly collapsed in shock.

Those lips, those beautiful eyes … that voice. God in heaven, that voice! I yearned to guide that melodious wonder to the greatest heights of the heavens themselves, to touch her delicate face.

And those lips … needless to say, those perfect lips spawned a thousand thoughts, and every single one was far too sinful to print.

By the time that Christine Daae's audition for the chorus had concluded, I had already sworn to find a way to make her mine. She would be mine, for she came willingly into my opera house, and all that remained within its walls was mine to claim.

Death and its power be damned, I would have her! She would be mine!

My Christine… all my patient years of learning to woo a woman had finally become meaningful. I had found my true love! Now for that little matter of introducing myself…

By this time, I had completely forgotten my original objective, and was startled to hear her speak below me.

"Gracias, Padre … Gracias." It was hardly loud enough to be called a murmur, but she appeared to be close to tears. In all my time around her, I couldn't remember ever having seen her like this.

Any interest that I might have had in the chit vanished as soon as she raced to meet Mademoiselle Daae. The two of them nearly fell to the floor as they flung their arms around one another. Christine began to weep openly as they kissed each other on both cheeks, and the other girl looked even closer to tears than before.

"Oh Leah! I have missed you so!"

"And I you, hermanita. And I you."

Perhaps it was high time for the 'angel' to dust off his wings.

_**

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Authoress's Notes:** Darling reviewers, where art thou? I hope this longer chapter shall re-entice those of you I haven't heard from in a while._

♪_Yes, in the original Leroux novel, Erik used a rowboat, not a gondola. I like the rowboat, and while I'm not fond of the man that was Leroux, I do like his writings. So there, that is my justification. :)_

♫_Yes, Eric is a fickle little imp, quickly believing that he has found a soul mate like that. What can I say, lust is a powerful emotion, men are not generally known for being the brightest crayons in the box, and hey, there is that whole matter of Eric being slightly INSANE. Yes, there is that._

♪_Well, we are starting to get into familiar territory as far as plotline goes, and mine is probably going to lean heavily on the events of the original novel. Leroux all the way, baby! (High fives Fish and any other Leroux shippers out there. Oh no, I've gone and done it! When I started writing fan fiction, I said to myself, "Self, those hard-core shipper people are creepy. Let's not do that." Goes to show that I have no control over Self. I guess she's just a free spirit…) ANY WHO, I'm thinking about writing up a brief little summary about the plot line of the Leroux novel so that non-readers can follow my writings. _ How many people reading this have NOT read Leroux? _(Shame on you, non-readers! Heretics! "Down, Self! Heel!" Sorry, I told you she's a free spirit…)I just want to know if I'm wasting my time by typing up a summary or not.

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_

**Kipper**: Thanks for the review, dear. I want you to know that every one is a bright, cheery spot in my day! Yep, I used your saying, and you got a cameo. I don't know if you caught it or not, but I modeled a little bit of Mme. Olivia off you. I don't know your real name, so I named her one of my favorite names. (If I ever have a daughter, I want to name her Olivia) If you tell me your first name, I'll change it. I like to sometimes give reviewers little subtle shout outs in my story. :) Yeah, I'm not incredibly fond of the stories that have minors falling for a forty year old myself. Congrats on the tattoo! I'm actually giving serious thought to getting one myself. I have been for several years actually, but now that I'm old enough, I'm getting a little chicken about the whole needle thing. I still really want to get the tattoo (I designed it myself, and it has a lot of symbolic meaning for me) but I'm a huge needle-phobic, and it is taking a while to concur my fears.

**JPT:** Hey Amanda, this is Alana. Aren't you glad that we finally got ourselves married off? (To boys, not to each other, despite the poor grammar of that last sentence.) If you don't mind my inquiring, do you have any preference on what your make-believe hubby's name out to be? I wouldn't want to get the two of you hitched and then have the whole marriage fall apart cause he's got a really creepy name or something. ;) And hey, look everyone, auntie Joanie is back. (It's so much fun to insert you into the story.) Thanks for all your reviews and thoughts, they are very dear to me! And yes, poor, poor Larry, he is as bald as an egg…


	47. Far Across the Gray Sea, P1

_If to heaven's heights I fly,  
You will stay close by me.  
Or in death's dark shadows lie,  
You are there beside me.  
If I flee on morning's wings,  
Far across the gray sea,  
Even there your hand will guide.  
Your right hand will lead me._

_-Irish folk song, based on part of Psalm 139

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_

(I told you that you hadn't seen the last of this song… :mad cackle: )

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**Chapter Forty Seven: Far Across the Gray Sea, P.1

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**

**Leah**

"Oh! He's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen!" She squealed.

Even several weeks after her return to the Garnier, I still found myself constantly surprised by Tina's presence. She had not lost that air of childish sweetness that had been so apparent when she was younger. Despite the fact that she was now a young lady of sixteen, Christine Daae was still just as easily ensnared by something fragile and helpless as she was on the day that she left.

"Oh Leah! Look at him try to stand!" She cried with joy, clutching my arm excitedly.

I had to admit, the tiny foal was truly adorable in every sense of the word. I was glad that I had thought to speak to Joseph before Christine left to retire to Mama Valerius's comfortable flat.

Upon entering the stables, Tina and I had remarked at the unusual noises that were drifting from one of the large corner stalls. When we investigated further, we had discovered one very exhausted mare named Cleopatra, one gangly little foal named Cesar, and several extremely smelly, dirty stable hands named Joseph, Creed, and Christian.

After enduring several moments of squeaking, tittering, and exclamatory cries from a certain chorus girl, even I began to warm up to the wobbly little fellow.

Despite his ridiculous name, (compliments of my historically obsessed and rather stinky friend, Joseph) the pure white colt was worming his sticky little way into my soft old heart. I slowly became rather entranced as I observed his pitiful attempts to stand, until I was shaken back into reality by a familiar voice and a tug on the sleeve of my threadbare blouse.

"Leah, we must be going! I didn't realize how long we had been down here. Mama V. shall be worried sick over me by now!"

After bidding the boys a good evening with their newest charge, I lead Tina out to the steps to hail a cab. While we waited, she unexpectedly leapt to another subject.

"Dinner was first rate tonight, _hermana_. I am so glad to be back."

No, my little Tinita had not changed a bit. Her mind was still as fly away as a goose down feather.

"Does 'Mama' know that you use such awful slang?" I asked her, only partially joking. Where had the girl learned such boyish phrases?

When she returned my inquiry with a mocking pout, I could not help but laugh.

"God above me, how long has it been since I have laughed like this?" I wondered with a silent smile.

"It is good to have you back, _Tinita_. And yes, I thought the food was rather palatable myself."

As we had many nights in the recent past, Tina and I had gone out in the late afternoon for a light dinner at a small bistro. It was not exceptionally prudent of me, for my pocket book was badly injured by such frivolities, but I hardly noticed.

Besides spending time with my young 'hermana', I patronized an old friend when we dinned out. Mme. Avida was the owner of 'The Captain's Galley', a superb little restaurant on a quiet street not far from the Garnier. The food was excellent, and it gave Tina and I a wonderful excuse to take the time away from our hectic schedules to see one another. We talked for ages, catching up on all that we had missed in each other's lives these past nine years.

I had learned that her return to the Garnier had been M Valerius's death bed request to my friend, and that his passing had prompted her remaining guardian to return to Paris. I was still quite fond of the eccentric old lady, and had been glad to be reacquainted with her. Tina had also mentioned something about a beau she left behind in the country side near Perros-Guirec. At the mention of their parting, she had suddenly ceased her little narrative and began on another subject. I had not pressed the matter, for I was sure that their leave takings had not been happy ones.

Yet in spite of her occasional bouts of melancholy, the hours that I spent in Tina's company were some of the brightest in my life. Few others had the time to spare for me as often as she did nowadays.

Beth and the other girls had always remained close to me, but despite the fact that we still met together at night on occasion for a cup of tea, they had lives of their own now to attend to. Our love for one another had never wavered, but now there was an ocean of difference that separated me from them and their happy new domestic lives.

Amanda had been the first of our little group of sisters to marry, and every one of us had watched the first bird fly from our nest with a mixture of bittersweet loss and ecstatic happiness for our friend. Still, we were all glad that she married a fellow opera employee, Gervais Dun. The calm, practical man was Debbine's personal assistant. She could not have found a better mate, for he acted as an anchor for her flighty nature just as she slowly coaxed him out for an occasional flight of foolishness from time to time.

Hortense and Alana were both married outside of the theater to respectable gentlemen of modest means, happily beginning their own families. Their sweet little children were like nephews and nieces to me, each dearer than the one before. I loved to watch them for their mothers when I was asked, knowing that it would be the closest I would ever come to having children of my own. In my secret heart of hearts, I envied the lives that my friends had found for themselves.

Beth had remained my closest confidant throughout the years. She was a constant source of quiet strength and sage advice, even after the inevitable had occurred and she married Beval Monet.

By the time Beth had turned twenty, the rest of us had begun to make monetary bets on how long it would take for the boy to propose. (I won nearly fifty francs with the closest wager.) Now several years into their nearly story book marriage, the pair of turtle doves were expecting their first child. Her belly was swelling, slowly but surely, like rising dough.

Beval, with his sweet, playful disposition, often teased her about her round stomach.

"_Are you carrying our child or growing a melon in there?"_

At the beginning of her pregnancy, such comments had won him laughs and kisses from the blooming mother. That, however, was before Beth learned the joys of morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And evening sickness…

Pregnancy did not agree with Beth, and such jests now tended to earn Beval an irritated slap.

Still, in spite of the baby's negative effects on Beth's usually sunny personality, I wished with every beat of my heart for such a wonder in my hushed, lonely little life. It seemed that everyone else in the world had found love, except for me.

Even little Meg had finally grown up, playfully flitting from patron to patron and suitor to suitor as she filled her sister's vacancy in the corps de ballet as the second most talented dancer.

I often found myself avoiding the stage and the corps, for even the sight of warm-ups caused little pangs of sorrow in my heart and filled me with regret.

If only I had never gone up into those rafters…

If only I had never left my family…

"If wishes were wings…" I muttered sourly under my breath, forgetting for a moment that I was not alone.

"What was that?" Inquired Tina as a cab halted for her.

"Oh, nothing dear," I perked up for her, "nothing at all. Buenos noches."

"Bonne nuit, Leah. Sleep well."

We kissed on the cheek as she bustled into the waiting cab. The driver tipped his hat politely to me and I bid him a formal good evening as well before his horses picked up their step.

As the rumble of the wheels on the cobblestones faded away, I turned to retreat to my quarters. When the cab turned the corner and was out of sight, I felt a stab of sad isolation.

It was nights like this that made me feel most lonely, for once I had had the pleasure of my friend's company, it's absence was all the more apparent. Although it was late August, the slight breeze was rather chilly, and I hurried inside.

In the unnerving darkness of the halls, I carefully made my way to the little ledge where I had left my lantern and my various packages. I had just finished my errands when Tina met me at 'The Captain's Galley', and had not had a chance to bring the things back to the opera house before we ate. Among the other parcels were the few letters that I had received that week. With one clumsy swoop, I scooped up my load and made for my little bedchamber.

The lantern flickered a bit as I hurried to my apartment in the cellars, and the only sound in the deserted halls was the faint click of my worn boot heels on the cold, rough hewn stone. I had never been able to shake my fear of the dark.

In the dark, my solitude became more biting. It was painfully apparent that I had no one to walk with me, to make me feel safe in the blackness. I felt empty and tired, as worn out as my shoddy clothing.

I often asked God what possible purpose my existence served, and sometimes secretly wondered what it would be like to lay down my burdens and go home. Every day of my monotonal years seemed hollow and devoid of meaning. I longed to believe that I was intended for more than this continuous loneliness, but life seemed to contradict me at every turn.

Even Señor, it seemed, had ultimately given up on me it seemed. I had not heard from the man since Tina's return. It was merely one more painful blow to my wounded heart.

Saddened by my depressing train of thought, I reached my door at last, only to find the most unexpected figure waiting for me.

"What are you doing here?" I cried.

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_**Notes:** Short chap. Arg. Tis 2:00 AM, and me must sleep… drags her caveman club back into her cave… I'll try to update sooner. _

_Guesses on the mystery guest? Come on, make my day!_

_And for those of you (like me) who are deprived and don't live in Europe, and freaked out a little when they read that Christine and Leah kiss each other on the cheek, DON'T WEIRD OUT ON ME. In most cultures, it is a perfectly normal action between close friends, or sometimes just acquaintances. Got a crash course on that when I went to Peru and stayed near one of my church's sister churches. Down there, if you are a girl, you kiss EVERYBODY on the cheek. (Guys don't kiss other guys) And I must say, I'm a bit sad that it's not part of American culture, especially every time I meet a really hot guy…. Oy, I'm terrible. (grins)

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_

**Kipper:** I'll take your advice on the tattoo thing, you are probably right about that. Arg, me no like needles… as for the Olivia thing, whoa, a little creepy, but God works in mysterious ways I guess. Leroux. Squee. And yess, he is a bit nutty, don't you think? (grin)

**Amanda, my partner in crime-** (though as to what crime we are committing, I have no idea…) Congrats on finding a guy. I hope to do the same eventually. Nope, twenty five is a great age … today. Around 1900, not so good. Poor poor Leah. (well, at least for now) (She hugs you for checking names! You know me too well.) As for Eric's messed up ideas about kissing, well, he is a guy after all… from what I gather, they tend to think with the wrong appendage from time to time. (pardon my unclean humor, I live with boys.) Yes, I do indeed plan to vary!

**Fish-** I completely understand the demands on your time. Oy, those meeting thingys sound like real bummers. Praying for them to subside for you, and I hope you have an awesome year with your job! (hugs) No, I contest your theory about the kissing. The kissing stays. (whips out her caveman club and her debater skills) My contentions follow thusly:

**First**, Eric is a murderer and an extortionist. Would it be a big stretch to think of him as a liar? (giggle) **Second**, who says Leroux got everything right? **Third**, I am the first to admit that you have a point about the impact this will have on the Christine kissing him thing. I dwelt upon that very issue for quite some time before deciding that Eric is psycho enough to compartmentalize his experiences with Leah as just part of the experiment. True, I am still irritated by the fact that it still does dim the impact of Tina's kiss, but I needed to have some semblance of intimacy between Eric and Leah for some other parts of the plot to work. Arg, the problems of fan fiction… **Fourth and most importantly**, every girl likes a story with kissing. Its lame, I know, but this story needed a little fluff amidst the constant angst. Come on, you can't tell me that every last one of you didn't feel warm and fuzzy when Leah and Eric shared a little affection. (grin)

Hope I've won you over to the dark side… (mad cackle) Have fun with the drum!

**Homeless-** Of course, no one in their right mind would call Eric crazy! What was I thinking? (grin) Actually, Eric is not very hot (sadness) but love overcomes all obstacles, no? Fellow Shipper! (gives you exclusive Leroux shipper cheesecake from her secret stash) Gerard is not hard on the eyes (bats lashes) but Patrick looks a bit like a girl (Don't hurt me!) However, neither one of them has anything on Hugh Panaro. (Swoons at the thought of Hugh's hotness and his sexy, sexy voice. "Oh, Hugh!" Faints.)

**Avid-** Look for your Cameo, dear!


	48. Far Across the Gray Sea, P2

_If to heaven's heights I fly,  
You will stay close by me.  
Or in death's dark shadows lie,  
You are there beside me.  
If I flee on morning's wings,  
Far across the gray sea,  
Even there your hand will guide.  
Your right hand will lead me._

_-Irish folk song, based on part of Psalm 139

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_

(I told you that you hadn't seen the last of this song… :mad cackle: )

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**Chapter Forty Eight: Far Across the Gray Sea, P.2

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**

**Leah**

"What are you doing here?" I cried.

What on God's good green earth did this slack-witted man think he was doing in **my** bedchamber? And at this hour?

Didn't he understand the repercussions of such a foolhardy action?

"Have you lost your little wooly brain? I hissed like a cobra spiting venom, realizing that my shouts might be perceived by unwanted ears.

Remembering that the door was hanging ajar behind me, I quickly darted to shut it. Had anyone seen? With deliberate speed, I snapped the lock closed and whirled about to continue my tirade.

"Are you completely daft?" I fought the urge to slap him.

To busy myself and avoid causing the man bodily harm, I set about providing us with some semblance of proper light. He had lit my chipped, grimy hurricane lamp when he arrived, I supposed. Unfortunately, the soot stained chimney of the lamp was a great deterrent of light, requiring me to use several precious candles to illuminate my undesired guest. I would have to get around to cleaning the thing soon.

My temper held in a slightly firmer grip, I faced him once again.

"What do you have to say for yourself? What do you mean by coming here, you great dolt?"

Henry merely gave me a weary attempt at a grin and sighed as he took a seat on my tired, battered trunk in the corner of the room.

I instantly knew that something was dreadfully amiss. Henry would never, _never_ pass up an opportunity to tease me, but there he sat. My brother looked about as jovial as a fat pig on Christmas Eve, picking nervously at the peeling leather on my well worn trunk.

Henry! **Nervous**! I half expected to truly grow wings on the spot and fly off.

Surely this couldn't be my mildly arrogant, self assured big brother? I had only seen him in such an anxious state a handful of times in the entirety of my years. What news could he be bringing?

Suddenly I was gripped by a fist of worry. Was someone sick?

Had someone died?

"Oh sweet Jesus," I silently prayed while searching for something to say, "Please don't let them be dead! I never even got a chance to say goodbye! Please God, anything but that."

Hoping that I was simply being foolish, I decided to inquire about less grave sources of a possible problem.

"Is it the wedding? Is Leotyne ill?" Mademoiselle Pirrata had been Henry's fiancée for nearly a year and a half now, and the grand ceremony was to take place in less than a week.

My hermano had spoken of nothing else but her on his weekly visits for months now. We always met outside the opera house in discreet tea shops or back road cafes, in order to keep our secret, but Henry had been so brazen as to introduce me to his future wife on a few occasions, despite my protests.

Fortunately, the woman had proved herself worthy of all of his trust, and had been genuinely understanding of our odd relationship. She seemed kind enough, though a bit quiet for my tastes. They had even invited me to the massive wedding at Leotyne's utter insistence. She claimed that no one would notice me in such a crowd, and I had gladly given in. If I could not have my own wedding, at least I could be there for Henry's happy day of celebration and love.

But the question remained, why had he come to see me so close to the important date?

"Henry? Henry!"

Henry had been staring off into space, but jerked his head towards me at the sudden sound of my voice.

"What? No, no … everything is going as planned. Don't worry about that." He gave a second attempt at a reassuring smile, but the result was even more pitiful than his last. He seemed to be hiding something, shuffling his sharply polished shoes along my unfinished floor. Henry had never been much of a liar or a conspirator, for he gave away his hand far too easily.

"Henry!" I began sternly, for I had become frustrated and confused the longer he kept his silence. "What is it? If you don't tell me soon, I shall simply implode from lack of knowledge!"

A glimmer of his usual cocky attitude resurfaced for a moment as he rolled his brown eyes.

"Don't get your garters in a bunch, Leah." He teased.

"Then out with it!"

He made an odd face before continuing. "I'm trying. Truly, I swear that I am. I had an entire explanation written down and memorized to recite for you, because I knew this would be difficult. Now that I'm trying to tell you, it seems that I've forgotten the entire thing!"

"What in the name of all holy things could you need to prepare an oration for? I'm your hermana, you lummox. Just tell me!"

"I don't know how to say it!" Henry cried out loudly, rising to his feet. As his exclamation echoed off of my thing, plastered walls, we both realized that our voices had been gradually increasing. We stared at each other for a moment before attempting to calm ourselves.

He resumed his seat and continued his confession in a whisper.

Once I could control the depths of my shock long enough to breath again, I began to comprehend what my brother had told me.

"When?" I asked in a tiny, quivering voice. It sounded as though it belonged to another person entirely.

"After the honeymoon is over." He sighed and slipped a long, thin package out from behind the wardrobe. "I wanted you to have this while I am gone, Izzy."

Still stiff with astonishment, I clumsily opened the box with numb fingers and gasped at the contents.

"Henry, I can't. You know I can't possibly take this!" It was his favorite epee. He would sooner part with a limb than see this in the hands of another. I remembered that he had even named the thing.

"Well you can't keep her, you nit. I'll be wanting Lucile back the moment I return to French soil!" He tried to laugh at his own joke, but the sound was hollow and forced. "Take care of her for me."

Having no other option, and having trouble convincing my brain to thaw, I accepted dumbly.

"Take care of yourself too, Izzy. Do you understand?" Henry admonished before saying goodbye. He turned and embraced me before striding gallantly out the door.

"Be careful" I fervently whispered into his ear.

And thus another walked out of my life, leaving a treacherous body of water and a chilling distance between our hearts.

**

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Eric

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**

A drop of rain fell with an unceremonious 'plop' as it leapt off the brim of my fedora.

Another followed it.

And another.

And another.

"Merde." I growled heatedly. "This is simply _superb_!"

I hated the rain.

I hated the thunder, and I hated the lightning.

Most of all, I **detested** being wet.

At the very thought of such an annoyance, I straightened the collar of my serviceable new cloak, glad that it was rather impervious to this accursed plague from the heavens. My abominable skin took as well to sogginess as it did to bathing in acid.

Both were best if avoided.

Several new profanities bloomed on the tip of my tongue when I thought about what the storm would do to the humidity in my little home. It would be like the jungles of India in that sweatbox for the next few weeks.

I picked up my pace as I saw my domain looming ahead in the light rainfall. Its elaborate gray stone called to me as a lighthouse cries out for a drowning sailor.

Dryness.

Blessed dry land.

Once inside and winding through my private tunnels, I allowed my mind to wander towards happier thoughts as my body steered towards its port by memory. While rowing across the rising water of my lake, I began to catalogue all I had seen throughout my relentless day.

I had spent the wee hours of the morning consumed by the details of my notes for the next several weeks. Without intervention, the upcoming production of Tristan und Isilode would be kindling sticks in the newspaper reviews. How had those two imbeciles ever managed to secure such positions without possessing an ounce of musical sense between them?

My frustrations had been cut short, however, at five o'clock, by a ringing alarm. Hastily disarming my jangling clock, I set out on my unending mission, rowing over the smooth surface of the inky lake and making for a familiar passage. My heart picked up its twisted tempo as I drew nearer to my goal and anticipated the sight that was waiting for me.

Though it would be an hour until the subject of my devotion arrived in the chorus studio, I was not disappointed. She arrived after most of the room had already been filled my gossiping girls and took a quiet, unobtrusive seat just beneath my vantage point as she had every morning since the day she returned.

And every day she followed the same heartless routine in this room, shying away from the rest of the girls and singing with a flat, empty voice that nearly caused me to remove my precious few strands of hair from my God forsaken scalp.

She sounded like a dying cat!

Where had the emotion of her audition flown off to? It mattered little in the end, but I needed to know if her heart longed for stardom or not. That was the hinge, the very crux of my little strategy. Without that, I would loose a valuable tool that I needed if I was to obtain her without using force.

True, I could simply skip down to my simplest option and abduct her. There were any number of priests who would marry off an unconsenting bride, if the correct sums exchanged hands. Yet I was determined to try to persuade her to come of her own free will.

My experiences with Mlle. Iglesias had given me a sliver of hope, and I had not even expended all of my charms on the girl. I silently thanked every deity that I could remember for having listened when the old magician of the Rajah's court had taught me the trick of mesmerism. He had told me that my voice was a natural channel for the exercise, and I had been a quick student.

A grain of my emotion was vaguely bothered by the idea of subjecting such a radiant creation to a life bound up to a murderous monster. Indeed, it occasionally crossed my mind that she would most likely die if she were ever to lift the lid on my terrible secret, yet I could not allow any doubts to interfere with my goal. I would have a wife, a true love. She would love me as well, and lead me up into the light, back into the world of men and out of the den of a monster. I would live again, after being death for so long!

My little goddess began to stir as M. Gabriel, the new chorus master, tapped his baton on his music stand and called for attention. Her movement caught my eye and diverted my thoughts in a delightful manner. Her neatly coiled, curling tresses cried out in all their brilliant blond glory to be caressed and cherished, her form swayed unconsciously in a seductive, womanly gait. If I could only muster up a scrap of patience, this unearthly Venus would someday be mine.

Mine!

While staring at my unknowing love from behind the façade, I toyed with the possibilities that my voice and my music could afford me with her. I would entice her with all that I could offer and conceal my curse until after the vows were said. If I was truly lucky, my beloved would still remember 'the angel of music' from her youth. Should she desire a place in the spotlight, should she long for her father's memory, I would be there to pave her way with bricks of gold.

I would give her the opera house, no Paris itself! like a glittering bauble on a chain or a ring around her exquisitely delicate little finger. Surely she would understand the depths of my devotion then! Who could fail to see such an obvious thing?

And perhaps, just perhaps, if there truly was a God somewhere across a distant sea, one who heard the prayers of mortal men … Perhaps I could dare to dream that she would come to love me enough not to expire when I revealed the truth to her…

If my weeks of careful scheming were successfully realized tomorrow night, I would have a string tied around her perfect heart that I could employ to slowly reel her in, like a gasping fish caught on a hook.

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_**Notes:** It may be a little while before I can update again, and I can only submit my deepest and most humble regrets to my darling readers. I am leaving for a short vacation tonight, to a gorgeous little cottage 'up north'. (if you don't understand why that is funny, just don't ask. Its WI humor.) Unfortunately for you and me, despite the beauty of this place, it has no phone lines. And no running water. It is kind of fun to pump from the well (and it builds my scrawny muscles), but outhouses take some getting used to. I'm trying to finagle my mom into bringing her laptop so that I can at least get some material written, if not posted while gone. See ya'll in a few days!

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_

**Kipper:** No, you cannot be queen of all the water, cause I still like Queen Elizabeth. You can be Empress of Loch Ness though. In fact, I herby declare thee Kipper, Empress of Loch Ness. Go forth and … do something … yeah … No, you didn't guess correctly. Senor is too preoccupied with a certain loveable blond. Silly git. Love the reviewage, as always.

**Homeless:** It's true, Patrick has a lovely little voice-box, and does look quite appealing when not blond, but I still submit that Hugh Panaro (the current broadway Phantom and one of, if not my ONLY, favorite phantom of all time. SEXY! Yes, Leah is very cynical. She's got a few issues to deal with … eventually. Did you like the origins of Cesar? As for Tina's finances, I am fiddling with the original Leroux and deciding that Mama V and Tina live in the upper middle class section of the economy. So she's not destitute, not even tight on money, but she is not rolling in bills either. Oh, and check out the cameo. You are in this chapter, and you got a nice looking boy to boot.

**JPT**: The future … I have no idea. The author … sorry, don't know anything about that one either. I won't say yes or no to the possible reasons she might go for a guy in the future, cause keeping you guessing is one of the silly things that I get a kick out of in life. (hugs you and gives you cheesecake for causing you confusion.) Well, no cigar this time on the guess. (though I have no idea why people like to smoke those things. A few of my uncles like them, and I've smelled them, and man oh man, are they ever NAAASTYYY! Yech.) Any who, I'm glad you like your man. And what do you mean by wild? (grins evilly and raises eyebrows)

**Fish:** What can you do with me? Lots of things … for instance, you could paint me blue and make me hop about on one foot while singing the battle hymn of the republic in Russian … but that still would not change the kissing. (grin) Thanks for debating with me though, I love to argue. (too many years of high school debate team) And keep in mind, I've never dated, never had even a puppy love boyfriend, and never been kissed, so I'm kind of in a foreign land when it comes to love. Strange that I'm writing an entire story with love as one of its main themes then, no? Oh well. I am so glad that school is going well for you! (Hugs and hands you cheesecake!)


	49. Heat Wave

**

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Chapter Forty Nine: Heat Wave

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**

**Leah **

The heat was unbearable.

There was little movement, and even less sound in the tiny, humid room, for the oppressive heat and humidity seemed to suck energy from our bodies as it extracted perspiration from our pores. The bright summer sun beat down on the six of us with a ferocious intensity and set the dustmotes in the stale air to sparkling as if they were diamonds.

Beth, plump and uncomfortable in her last few months of 'being indisposed' (as any proper Frenchwoman would refer to pregnancy), sat knitting on the bed beside me. My friend had taken her old hobby to new heights of obsession during her 'indoor months', knitting through nearly every waking moment. She made no exception during the abominable heat, and kept time to her clicking needles with a tapping toe as usual.

Of all of us, she appeared to remain the least affected by the weather, and incidentally, the most clothed. Though it might have also been due to the fact that it was now a feat of Olympic proportions to remove anything more that her stockings, for her fondly named 'melon' strained the buttons at the back of her frock nearly to their breaking point.

Meg, Amanda, and Hortense had taken to cards to avoid the sizzling summer day, and Alana was lost in her needlework. Then again, with the far off look that constantly graced her ruddy face, Alana always tended to appear rather lost, except on the dance floor. When concentrating on their art, both sisters wore expressions of either intense concentration or smiling grace.

Today, however, not a single inhabitant of the dormitory wore anything that even came close to resembling a smile. We were far too hot to smile, and the various stages of our improper undress attested to the fact. Little Meg wore nearly nothing, clothed almost solely in her shift!

I, myself, was only narrowly diverted from the torturous atmosphere by the small pile of battered volumes that lay at my scandalously bare feet. A book of Greek and Roman mythology was on the top. I knew without looking that the most dog-eared chapters were labeled 'Pandora's Box' and 'Psyche and Eros'.

Though I hated to admit it, memories of Señor, and all of the joys and regrets that were attached to them, continued to pluck mournful melodies upon the strings of my lonely heart.

In my hands lay tattered copy of Grimm's Fairytales, it's once gold lettering long ago faded from the red cloth cover. The story of Ariel, the little mermaid, had always been my most beloved story, and it only grew dearer with each new re-reading. She reminded me a bit of myself, willing to pay the ultimate price to attain her dream.

Despite the fact that my dream had been dead for so long, the story still evoked mixed emotions of fond remembrance and cold loss within.

"Now if only **I** could have managed to find a prince charming!" I thought sourly. Even if he left poor Ariel in the end for the princess, I still would not have minded having him for a little while.

But unlike the mermaid, I might just have done in the princess where she slept and married the prince to live happily ever after, instead of throwing away the dagger and dying to see him happy.

As my mind wandered from the well loved book, I decided that the current weather was awful in more ways than one. Nothing could have been a worse reflection of the attitude of my heart. Henry's absence was like a cold wind deep within my tired soul, a chilling gale from the center of the distant land that he would soon depart for.

The last of my family had left me for bigger and brighter horizons.

After he returned from Italy with the new Dona Castillo, he would board the Pourquois-pas and set out for Antarctica. He would be first mate to Jean-Baptiste Charcot, the famous explorer.

My hermano had risen like a shooting star in his naval career, and was a valued strategist, no doubt due in part to the love of chess that our grandfather had instilled in him. I had never been very good at the game, and could no longer even remember how it was played.

Still, this expedition was hardly a game. Many crews had been lost forever in that terrible, icy wilderness. Though I did not say it aloud, I worried for him and his life, despite the fact that anger also warred in my heart against him. He had left me, as others had before him!

Or perhaps I was truly angry with myself for getting my hopes up again.

I had been a fool to believe in the idiotic ideals of love and devotion, a gullible child to be seduced in to believing that anyone would ever care for me enough to stay in my life.

Even the other girls had left me, though their desertions were of a much less painful sort. Their only ships were those of marriage, and their only duties those of silver wedding bands, yet the distance that had formed between us was still palpable, even if insubstantial.

Tina and Beth, I mused, were the only sure things in my tired, desolate existence.

Beth's needles abruptly ceased their chatter as she spoke up unexpectedly, setting her knitting on the floor.

"This heat is insufferable! I, for one, am going to cool off. We should have gone back years ago." The other's reactions varied from Meg's dumbstruck stare to Amanda's quizzically raised eyebrows to Hortense's stale amusement.

"You wouldn't! You must be joking, dear." Alana puttered.

"I am not joking, you ninnies." She drew herself up with an air of pride. "I am not afraid of a little adventure, and I did not think that the rest of you had lost your backbones so easily!"

They simply continued to stare, refusing to budge, but my curiosity had come into full bloom. Though I longed to inquire about her mysterious, scandalous methods of relief, I did not want to appear cowardly myself. Ignorant of the truths that lay ahead, I piped up without another thought as she made to waddle out the door with a lantern in her chubby, pregnant fingers.

"I will go with you, Beth."

"Then come!" She cried gaily from a little way down the hall. I hurried after her too quickly to hear the calls from the rest of the girls, too quickly to wonder why she might need a lantern when the sun was shinning hot as Hades.

Perhaps, in hindsight, I ought to have paid more attention.

The journey to our unknown destination was a quiet one at first, for I had grown more and more quiet over the years, according to Beth. She tried to joke that I was training for a career as a pantomime.

Though she found the concept hilarious, I never understood it. The truth of the matter was that there were simply far fewer happy things to discuss, and 'no polite woman airs her dirty laundry in the street', as Abuela had once said.

Abuela…

The fact that my thoughts were often turned to my lost family did little to improve my mood as of late. Their attendance of Henry's wedding had been a burden almost too great to bear. Indeed, had it not been for my dear brother (who I could not entirely blame for leaving) and his sweet bride, I would have fled the scene on sight.

But what a sight it had been!

The happy pair had been married in the great cathedral, Notre Dame herself! The pews had overflowed with dignitaries, wealthy titles, noble families, and decorated naval officers while the altars had overflowed with a profusion of flowers, namely roses and poppies.

Henry had been dashing and suave in his crisp tuxedo. His coal black hair matched the suit, and was slicked back. His dark brown eyes had shone out from his light olive skin as he watched his bride walk towards him. The bride had been stunning by herself, decked in a sumptuous, ridiculously expensive frock that her mother had insisted upon.

The elder Madame Pirrata, poor Leotyne's mother, was an overbearing woman who had ruled over the entire wedding with an iron fist that was hidden under white lace. My new sister had barely managed to wiggle her own tastes into the design of her dress and a few of the flowers. I did not envy Henry his new parents-in-law, not one bit.

I had to admit I _did_ envy the gown, if only just a little. The bustle was lavishly rouched and the bodice hung gently off of her pale shoulders. The elegant frock was a delicate confection of satin and tulle and utterly a la mode, just off of the fashion plates and the modiste's machines.

Despite my stubborn hatred of Mme. Bygler and my duties under her, I had learned a little about current fashion while confined to the prison cell that was better know as the costume department.

I had followed Beth's rolling gait with out thinking while wandering deep inside my mind, and had not noticed that we were descending down one of the main stairwells until Beth lit her lantern.

"Beth," I asked quietly as the darkness of the third basement enveloped us and began to frighten me silly, "where _are_ we going, precisely …"

"Oh, I suppose you don't know, do you Leah?" She giggled slightly as her inconsistent mood changed once again. "We are going to cool off in the lake."

"What lake?"

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_**Authoress's Notes:** Beth and her pregnant hormones, huh? Oh, and did I mention the foreshadowing? Yeah, lots of that here… find it if you dare!_

_Any predictions about what they find on the shores of the lake? (And here's a hint, it's not a tan.)_

_Oh, and maybe you will find happiness in knowing this: Eric/Leah interaction ahead! (hint, take a look at the title)_

_Sorry about the long wait for the update. Collage is awesome! My arms hurt from moving all my heavy boxes up those nasty stairs. Blech! But other than that, much fun has been had. I shall try to keep updating more often.

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_

**Kipper-** I shall be the court bagpiper, your emperessness! Woot. I couldn't hold my breath, unfortunately. I needed it all to scream with whenever there were spiders in there. And not just any spiders mind you, spiders the size of my palm! Yech! Any who, the rest was wonderful. And since you adored the chapter, I adore you. Cheesecake for all!

**Fish-** Oh my, lumberjack? I only wish! Alas, the kissing shall remain, but worry not (or at least a little less) for the kissing shall be mitigated soon… dun, dun, dun… Yes, pencil and paper are generally my friends, but for some reason, I only seem to be inspired to write this when at my computer. Who knows why? The tiny scrap of brain matter that I still posses is rather odd from time to time.

**Homeless-** I hope you enjoyed the wedding! Sorry, I didn't get your e-mail at first. And I hope you REALLY enjoy you honeymoon in Italy. Have fun in all those little chateaus… giggle. Yes, Eric is a lot of fun to write too, but a bit of a challenge at times. While I am a bit crazy, I'm not that crazy…

**JPT-** WILD PARTY BEING THROWN! The bad guesser finally got one right! Yay! (She thonks a party hat on your head and dances about merrily in celebration.)

**Avid-** Satan's tabernacle? That is awesome, I laughed so hard. No, I have faith in your reviewing faithfulness. So review!


	50. About Love

**FIFTY WHOLE CHAPTERS! OH YEAH, BABY! PARTY TIME!

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**

…_God bless the cozy cage we share.  
You kill me,  
You thrill me,  
Threatening my dreams, girl_

_There's something wonderful about love,  
There's something wonderful about love,  
There's something liberating death alone brings  
There's something funny bout' a lot of sad things  
There's something wonderful about love,_

_-'About Love', by The Choir

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_

**Chapter Fifty: About Love

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**Eric**

She had not returned!

"What have I done?" I lamented with a sob. "Eric has frightened her, and our beloved has fled from us!"

I had spent a third day searching for the angelic creature with out success. The dull thud of my boots upon the steps of the fourth cellar sounded as hollow and lifeless as the heart within my accursed chest.

Had I somehow miscalculated my approach? We had planned every last detail of that day down to a perfect science! How could it have failed so badly that she fled my opera house altogether? How had everything gone so wrong?

She had been terrified when I began to sing to her despite my best attempts at subconscious suggestion, racing from room to room around the little rotunda attic, frantic to find the source of my gentle music. Then she had run from the upper levels of the Garnier to the refuge of her friends' dormitory. There had been too many little rats scuttling about for me to make my presence known to her there, and I was forced to watch helplessly as the dear creature attempted to convince herself that she was not mad.

I had not even had the chance to remind her of the angel of music.

"Yes, you would make a splendid angel, Eric." The voices taunted me, as I released the mechanism to open the one way door. "A murderous criminal with a face from the very pits of hell. Of course you are an angel!"

Perhaps if I had not been paying so much attention to the irritating presences in my head, I would have become aware of the soft voices on the other side of the wall.

By the time I noticed the two figures on the shores of my lake, it was too late to go back the way that I came.

"Merde!" I cursed loudly inside my skull. "What are those chits doing down here in the first place? Damn them both!"

The passage I had just left was designed to open only from one side, and I was neatly trapped in a recess in the rocky walls by the bright light of their lantern. If I moved more than a few inches from my hiding place, the two young women would see me instantaneously.

I paid no mind to their inconsequential faces or conversation, too consumed by anger to care about who they were.

"How dare they intrude upon my domain? How dare they trap me?" I fumed. "I'll wring their scrawny necks!"

But just as I began to shift my weight, it occurred to me just what they were doing.

The girl closest to the lake called out to her companion. "Leah, be a dear and help me with this, won't you?" She gestured towards her sweat stained dress. "I'm afraid I cannot undress without some assistance."

I stared in dumb shock as I realized who they were and what they were planning to do. It had been some time since I had bothered to indulge in 'looking in' on any of the chits in the dormitories, for I had been too consumed with my love.

"I suppose that if I am trapped here, I might as well enjoy the view." I thought persuasively.

I settled myself more comfortably against the rough hewn stone and prepared to watch and listen. A nagging bit of my mind continued to insist that I turn away, not for propriety's sake, but so that I would not betray my beloved.

I squashed the thought quickly, focusing on the scene that was unfolding before me.

Mademoiselle Iglesias inched away from the hot, dilapidated lantern nervously and began to do as her friend asked. "Beth, why did the others react that way when you said that you were coming here?" Her eyes continued to dart back and forth, as though looking for me in the darkness.

What a foolish thought! Why on earth would the girl think to look for 'Señor' in this dim circle of Hell?

"Oh, that?" Replied Mlle. Giry as her friend helped her out of her limp, cotton shift. "When we were very young, before you came, Maman taught us to swim down here."

"Your mother?" The younger girl giggled as Bethany returned the favor of helping her from her own faded garment.

"What is so amusing?"

"I am sorry, Beth. It is simply difficult to imagine your mother swimming. It is not exactly a dignified activity for a refined lady."

"Yes … I suppose it is an odd picture when I look back on it." She paused and contemplated the picture for a moment before giving a little laugh herself. "She said that since the boys learned in the rain barrels on the roof, we ought to learn as well. We swam here for several years, until the stories of the opera ghost frightened us away.

Now clad only in her shift, Giry's girl slowly waded into the water. With her plump belly, she looked a bit like a waddling duck. Her companion, however, remained on shore, eyeing up the dark water that lapped at her feet like a cat eyeing up a bath. Much to my dismay, she was still fully clothed, despite all the buttons of her frock being unhooked.

"Aren't you planning to join me?" The older woman called out, all ready having leisurely paddled several feet from shore. Her pale, rounded belly floated just out of the water as she drifted on her back, reflecting the light like a tiny moon in the artificial night. "The water is a bit chilly, but you'll be used to it in a moment."

"I … I don't … It smells terrible." Stuttered Mlle. Iglesias, as she clung to the stony shore like a starfish to a boulder. Her jaw had a stubborn set to it that said she would brook no arguments with her decision. "I have errands to run later, and I don't care to smell like a-"

"Nonsense." Bethany ignored her resistance. "The 'aroma' is from a small sewage pipe clear across the lake. The water here is quite clean, Papa told us so years ago."

This did little to convince the cautious figure any further from shore.

Giry had spoken the truth. Most of the lake was, in fact, spring fed, and rather pleasant. That is, if one enjoyed the water.

I shivered at the disgusting thought.

I hated the water with a passion, and only bathed in my sterile claw footed tub when absolutely necessary. I couldn't blame the girl for her reluctance to swim, but I ferverently wished that she would.

The rest of my body agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

"I don't want to!" She cried in exasperation, sounding very much like my beloved when she was in a petulant mood.

The Giry girl began to tread in the water, looking back to shore with a hint of concern in her voice. "What is the matter, Leah?"

Mlle. Iglesias blushed like an unfolding rose, and moved her lips wordlessly for a moment before replying. Then she whispered something so quietly that not even I, a mere fifteen feet behind her, could make out the words.

"Come again, Leah?"

With a deep sigh, the younger girl straightened her back and threw her friend a glare that positively dared her to belittle what she would say next.

"I can't swim! There, are you happy?"

Bethany did not even attempt to contain her mirth, throwing back her head with a booming laugh that echoed across the expanse of my lake.

The glare from shore was magnified by tenfold.

If looks could kill, Mlle. Giry would be sinking down to a watery grave.

"_It is _NOT _funny!" _

"On the contrary dear, I think it is quite hilarious!" Bethany barely stifled another giggle. "Would you like me to teach you?"

"No." Came the quiet reply, barely a murmur. The land bound woman turned and sat on the damp beach at an angle that allowed me to see her profile, oblivious to the tiny waves that lapped at her loose dress. The look in Mlle. Iglesias's eyes took me by surprise as much as her tone did, for it was one of weariness and defeat. I had never observed such things from her in the past.

A fragment of my heart felt a twinge of jealousy that I had not been privy to the complete sum of the girl's emotions while I had been 'courting' her. Why shouldn't I have been given everything that she had?

"Why not dear? It isn't so very hard, ma foi!"

"I do not wish to learn." She said firmly.

"Hmph. Fine then, have it your own way. I for one, am enjoying this tremendously." Giry's girl returned to her slow, patient strokes while continuing to tempt her friend out into the water.

"I can't tell you how wonderful it is to be in the nice _cold_ water."

"I'm not coming out there."

"Oh, you are incorrigible! It _is_ quite nice, especially after lugging around my little '_treasure'_ all day long." She crooned sarcastically while stroking her heavy stomach. She began to speak to it. "You had just better come out soon, my bebe, or we shall have some things to discuss between us. Oh, what is that, bebe?" She pretended to listen to her stomach intently. "You think Auntie Leah ought to come out in the nice cool water with us?"

"Did you hear that, Auntie Leah?"

With a sigh, she stood to her feet and began to shed her clothing and take down her long, dark hair. It fell nearly halfway down her flexible back. In a few moments she too wore only a thin linen shift.

"Uhg. I heard you, Beth." Came the exasperated answer. "But I am NOT coming out there!" She sat down in the shallow water and reclined on her elbows, her hair pooling around her as she cooled in the chilly water.

Both my mind and my body were rather pleased to see her finally fulfill our wishes.

Now if only she would dispense with that cumbersome shift of hers, Eric would have a brief glimpse at heaven.

Though I knew I ought not to betray my true goddess in such a fashion, I couldn't help but drink in the sight of this angelic form in white. Her soft forearms disappeared under the midnight liquid, and her silky tresses cascaded down her back and melted into the gentle current like black ink. She was not my Christine, but she was not so very difficult to look at either.

By the time I had regained my senses, Beth had beached herself along side of the object of my attention and they had begun to converse in low, content voices.

"So are Mama Beth and Bebe happy now?"

"Oui, of course, Auntie Leah!"

"Good, good." Replied the appealing girl, sounding content and a bit sleepy.

After a few moments of companionable silence, she spoke again, turning the conversation in an unexpected direction.

"Beth," She asked shyly, "You love Beval, yes?"

"Of course!" Snorted Bethany, as though she had asked whether or not the sky was blue. "You know that … why do you ask?"

As Mlle. Iglesias turned her head to look at her friend, I caught another brief glimpse of her features. A deep emptiness, a bitter sort of longing was painted across her pained face as clear as day.

"What … what is it like?" She inquired softly, turning back to gaze at the unending darkness. It was as though she could not bear to hear the answer, but could not live without it.

"What do you mean, 'what is it like'?"

"Being in love." Was the barely audible reply, laced with a thousand strands of sharp emotion.

"What makes you ask?" Bethany asked gently.

"I simply wished to know what I'm missing, that is all." She said with a bitter, self depreciating little laugh. "I see it all around me, every day. You and Beval. Henry and Leotyne. Tina and her pinings for her mysterious lost love…"

"Lost love?"

"Oui. She hardly speaks of him, but I often catch her staring off into space with that sad, wishful expression of hers. She has even written poetry about it."

"Really?"

"Mmm. She has quite a talent for it too. You should ask her to see it sometime."

"Leah, you are avoiding the subject again. Honestly, it was your subject this time!"

The raven haired girl shrugged her shoulders guiltily. "What is it like, Beth? It seems apparent that I am unlikely to learn first hand in my lifetime, but I should like to know."

"Oh, Leah." Bethany sighed as she put an arm around her shoulder. "How can I begin?"

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**Authoress's Notes:**

I don't think that the lake is spring fed, nor am I sure if it would be considered clean enough to swim in, but hey, its called artistic licence for a reason! So there.

Did ya'll like the idea of Tina the poet? I wanted my Christine to have a little bit of a life outside of the realm of music, so that the poor girl gets a little depth in her character! Leroux kinda makes her out to be either a conniving manipulator or a brainless ditz, depending on how you interpret her character, but I wanted something a bit more realistic, so I threw a bit of myself into her.

If you want to read the poem that Tina wrote (Well, I wrote it, and then later realized that I could work well for Tina's perspective at this point in the story. An embedded work! Yippie!) Check out my piece called 'Love Shall Ever Lie'.


	51. The Key to it All

**_1 Cor. 13:1-3_**

_If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love,  
I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal._

_And if I have the gift of prophecy,  
and understand all mysteries and all knowledge,  
and if I have a faith that moves the mountains,  
but have not love,  
I am nothing._

_If I give all I possess to the poor and the helpless,  
and surrender my body to the flames,  
but have not love,  
I gain nothing._

**

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Chapter Fifty One: The Key to it All, P.1

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**Leah**

Her doe-like eyes were full of pity.

"I could never even begin to explain it, dear."

The color of burnt caramel, her eyes reminded me of the amber grass that grew on Los Acantilados de Esperanza, where Henry and I had played as children. The soft pang of loss and regret that ran through me was as much for Las Colinas Brillantes, the happy villa in Italy, as it was for the loss of my brother. Some of the happiest days of my youth had been spent in that beautiful place.

"It is as if you've asked me to explain the concept of eternity. Love is not made to be explained, but to be lived."

"Try!" I cried out in frustration, my raw, unfettered voice expressing the depth of my emptiness as it echoed all around us.

Ashamed at my lapse of control, but unable to regain it, I lowered my voice to a soft whisper. "I am sorry, I … I shouldn't have-"

She merely drew my shoulders closer into her warm, almost motherly embrace. "Il n'y a pas de quoi."

After a moment's pause, she took in a thoughtful breath and spoke.

"Love is confusing. Your heart tugs you in a thousand different directions at once, and refuses to tell you which is the right way. At first, whenever you look at him, you will feel as though you want to run and hide, bashfully stutter and make a fool of yourself, and jump into his arms all at once.

You will find yourself thinking of him at the oddest moments of the day: While you are in the kitchen, as you wash in the morning, and when you are walking in the streets. He will sometimes seem to notice you, and then there will be other days when you are sure that he doesn't know that you are alive. It will make you want to rip your hair from its roots in frustration, but it is worth every second of trouble.

And love can be utterly terrifying. When you are near him, sometimes you will be so nervous that you feel ill. You'll feel as though you've just swallowed some sort of furry little rodent that is leaping about inside you, and half of the night you will be absolutely certain that the abominable thing is going to escape, leap from your throat, attack the poor man, and knaw off his face.

Even the most conservative of women will spend countless hours in front of their mirror, wondering how to make themselves more attractive. Would he kiss me if I wore a bit more rouge? Would he like it if I fixed my hair like this? You'll spend an eternity modeling every last scrap of clothing you own, only to discover that you have nothing to wear, and that you would be better off going stark naked.

You often wonder for hours about what he feels for you, or spend days wondering if you might have done something foolish the last time you saw him. Were you too forward? Too reserved? Too brazen? Too polite? Did he notice that there was a bit of food stuck in your teeth, or was he simply smiling because he was happy?

It is as though you are standing on the edge of a cliff above dark water, with no way of knowing what lies below. Can you find the courage to let go of what you've always thought was solid land to fall into the unknown?

But above all, love is wonderful.

It is that feeling that you have when the sun is shining on your back on a cool day, and you feel its warmth like gentle blanket. It is as exciting as dancing as the Prima Ballerina, with all of Paris applauding on its feet. Love makes you come alive, and you see and touch and feel and think in ways that you couldn't even have comprehended before it came along.

It is like a key fitting into a lock, finding that you were fashioned just to fit together with your love, and no one else. In his arms, it is as though you are finally complete, you have found the one thing that you have been missing and needing all of your life.

Most of all, it reminds me of music.

Sometimes it is grand and powerful and moving, like the most beautiful aria or a triumphant choir, and sometimes it is sweet and golden, like a child's lullaby. No matter what form it takes, no matter what pain it brings you or how hard you have to fight for it, love is always something beautiful."

Something far down inside me throbbed in pain with every word she spoke, knowing that I would never, never feel this. For the first time in years, I wanted to cry. I needed to release the hurt that was eating me alive, but I could not.

It was as if I had simply forgotten how to weep.

I wanted to, I did. Ever fiber of my being screamed out to be unleashed, to grieve for all that I would never know, but I could not do it!

Perhaps I had finally beaten the instinct out of my heart, after so many nights of holding back the tears that threatened to drown me. Perhaps that part of my heart was finally dead.

I did not know whether to be regretful or relieved, but all that I could think of at the moment was the pain.

Beth must have noticed my travail, for she held me closer still and murmured soft apologies in my ear.

With one swift motion, I disentangled myself from her comforting arms. Couldn't she tell that I needed to be alone? Her presence was like a dagger in my belly, a sharp, violent reminder that everyone around me had found what I would never discover. Every door was locked to me, and I would never find my way to a place I could call home.

Apparently, Beth was not a mind reader.

As soon as I saw the look of hurt in her eyes, I wished that I had not moved.

"I am sorry Beth." I said faintly as I turned away from her injury, staring into the eternal blackness that enshrouded the unachievable shores of the other side of the lake.

If I were to swim out there, could I simply go on forever and loose myself in that black abyss? Could I end the torture in my soul?

"I shouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, I suppose." I tried to lighten the mood as I twirled back to face her, returning regretfully to the land of the living. "Sa la vive, no?"

She gave a slight smile in return, wordlessly telling me that all was forgotten and forgiven. I let out a little sigh of relief, and followed her lead as she wobbled towards shore and began to collect her things. A few minutes of idle chatter repaired nearly all of the damage that we had done to one another, Beth's wounded pride beginning to mend, and my bleeding heart attempting to form a scab over the mortal blow she had dealt it. An atmosphere of playful banter gradually re-coagulated about us, but my mind continued to wander down paths of sorrow.

Why had I squandered my chances? Why hadn't I traded my body for a bit of their hearts while I still had the chance?

"Beth?" I asked shyly.

"Hmm?"

"What is it like, to … well … that is to say … on your wedding night, is … oh, dear …" I faltered.

"Oh!" She chirped as we both proceeded to blush in shades that any rose would have envied. "That …"

"Oh, Beth, forget that I said it at all!" I cried in embarrassment. "I was just … was he your first?"

My dear friend's blush deepened only the slightest bit, but her smile grew more and more prominent.

"Yes." She said with a touch of pride in her voice as she remembered it. "Although, and don't you breath a word of this to anyone!"

I nodded, swearing my secrecy.

She came close and barely pronounced her words, as though afraid that we would be overheard. "We didn't wait for the wedding night."

It was my turn to yelp a little "Oh!", as we both returned to our blushing.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, my curiosity overcame my better judgment.

"Do you … well … do you regret having …"

"No! Of course not! … And yes, a little bit."

"I have no regrets about actually … well … Ahem. But I do wish we would have waited. We both felt so guilty afterwards, even though the wedding was only weeks away."

"But why? You said yourself, you were nearly married anyhow. Why feel guilty?"

Beth tilted her head to the side for an instant as she pondered her answer.

"I was always told that your body was a gift that belonged to God until your wedding day. Then it is yours to … uh … give to your husband. I suppose we both felt a bit like we were robbing God in a sense."

"Oh." Perhaps she had a point, I thought dejectedly. There was a good reason that I had not acted on my thoughts. Had I had forgotten about my faith in a momentary madness brought on by my loneliness? I knew there was a reason that I had refused!

And perhaps it was better this way.

Beth retrieved the last of her things and asked me to come up with her, before turning to leave. I declined, despite the eerie environment, opting to have a moment to myself in the utter stillness of the dark cellar.

Once her footsteps had receded into the unfathomable distance, I was truly alone with my thoughts as I picked up the lantern and began to walk aimlessly over the slippery rocks, contemplating all that I had just learned.

I paid no attention to my unnerving surroundings, for I was far too lost in the pathways of my thoughts to notice where I was going.

**-O- **

Little did I know that the unknown presence of another would soon alter my life forever…

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_**Authoress's Notes: **_

_Ooo, CLIFFY! Bum, bum, ba! So, predictions? What is Leah thinking? What is ERIC thinking? What do you think is going to happen? _

_Come on, you know you want to give it a shot! Even bad guessers get it right once in a while. (winks slyly in JPT's general direction)_

_What did you think of the chapter's content?

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_

**Empress Kipper-** Schlepping is officially my new favorite word! And your dog show story caused 'giggles to abound from _my_ lips'. Your faithful reviewing and offers of swimming lessons (Here, nessie!) make my heart overflow with happiness.

**JPT-** Mouse in his pocket? Huh? (stares at you in general confusion) Are you referring to his um … genetic assets?

A deranged, deformed, musical genius who is dangerously obsessed with Tina and has a SEXY voice that lives under the Garnier?

Pu-lease.

I might be crazy, but I'm not THAT crazy!

Am I?

**Homeless Leotyne-** Did you enjoy your wedding? I might even have a short Leah/Leotyne scene sometime latter…

Hmm, I think I am going to give you a new knick-name. No reason, just had the urge… Leotyne, Leo, Leo the Lion … Tigger. I henceforth dub thee Tigger. ♪ the wonderful thing about Tiggers, is Tiggers are wonderful things. Their tops are made out of bottoms, their bottoms are made out of springs…♫

Bounce, darn you, bounce!

**My Beloved Fish**- Circles… Huh? 0-0?

Why is everyone sending me reviews that don't make sense? (begins to cry) I DON'T UNDERSTAND!

Then again, incomprehension is a pretty normal way of life for me. When I am confused, all is right with the world.

Sad to hear about your car! I hope teaching is fun, even if taxing. And don't worry dear, your reviews are always helpful, as they brighten my day.


	52. What Lies Beneath

_This chapter is dedicated to my kitties, cause I miss them while I'm at collage. Oh, and to JPT, cause she has been such a faithful reviewer, and has been 'with me' on this fic almost since the beginning._

_I love all my reviewers!

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_

**Chapter Fifty Two: What Lies Beneath

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**

**Eric**

Though my trap had dissipated the instant she picked up the lantern, I continued to track the girl.

It was an idle pursuit, for she no longer posed any threat to me, but I had to grudgingly admit that I enjoyed watching her. By the meager light of her lamp, she appeared to be some sort of ghost in her own right. The pale color of her damp, clinging shift provided an artistic contrast to her dark, dripping hair and olive skin, for with only the lantern to illuminate her features, she seemed to be solely comprised of soft shades of gray.

But despite the pleasant scenery, my mind was focused elsewhere.

The Giry girl's words had confused and threatened me. She spoke of fear, of uncertainty, and of joy. I could roughly understand those concepts, and her sisterly advice gave me hope even as it befuddled me. I had felt those very things! Granted, the context was often different from the manner in which she had described it, but the emotions were there none the less.

I was sure that I would come across the joy that she spoke of in due time. Once my fiancée had grown to love me as I did her, I would certainly find my own little slice of paradise. Though my feelings for my beloved were rarely uncertain (for I knew with every inch of my soul that she was mine) they sometimes unnerved a small part of my mind with their feverish intensity. Was it possible to love something until it hurt? Regardless of my questions, it was a bit empowering to know that others shared these same reactions.

Perhaps I was human after all?

The thought nearly made me giddy. Once my love was mine, that thought, that incredible dream would become a reality. She would banish the darkness inside me with the light of our love. I was with out a doubt in my mind that my beloved would be my savior, rescuing me from the deepest hells within my mind, forcing the voices that haunted me to flee with her demure beauty and soft words.

Yet this passion, this sense of certainty, was the very thing that bothered me.

Mlle. Giry had made no mention of any of these feelings. She had been so clear about everything else, so why had she forgotten to speak of the ache, the need that was such an interregnal part of love?

That overwhelming desire to have my beloved near me was the strongest ingredient in the solution of my love for her. I was possessed and consumed by my desire to please her, touch her, speak to her … I wanted every moment of her life on earth for my very own. I would make her happy, I would keep her forever, and she would be mine!

The potency of my desire to possess her caused me a sort of pain that far surpassed any I had every known.

Maman had beaten me, De Tham had been a harsh task master, and I had nearly died in my endeavors to protect Azadeh, but those injuries had been physical. That sort of pain was something that I had learned to ignore as a small child.

But that was not to say that my heart had had an easy journey through my miserable life either.

As a boy, I had done everything within my power to convince Maman to care for me. Every attempt had been shunned, punished, or simply ignored. I gave her everything, every gift that I possessed: Drawings, compositions, even an entire garden planted with my nine year old sweat and tears on the sweeping grounds of my father's estates. Only my music had moved her.

When I sang well enough, her eyes would glaze over in a familiar manner, and she would cease her constant tirades. Later, in Persia, I would come to learn that I had happened upon a unique form of hypnosis in my frantic attempt to win my mother's affections. At times she would nearly seem at peace, and my heart would swell with joy and ecstasy knowing that I had brought her something good.

But even I could only sing for so long, and soon she would forget that anything at all had changed.

I had not really understood at the time just how pointless my efforts would be, for it had taken me years to come to grips with the cold fact that my mother was completely insane. Even though I had lived with her for four long years in the asylum, I had never truly believed her to be mad until years after living among the sane.

Somehow, it had seemed utterly normal that she would often seize me from my seclusion and force me to chant prayers with her as we knelt on the cold floors of father's mansion. Her fits of religious zeal were unpredictable, and came at all hours of the day … and the night. It was rare event back then for me to have an entire night's sleep, for she often came for me while I dreamed and shrieked that we must confess our sins or we would be damned to hell. She terrorized me constantly with descriptions of a vicious, vengeful God above and an even more evil devil below. Even now, as a grown man, I avoided sleep whenever I could so as not to revive my constant nightmares.

The praying was far from the worst of it though … and the worst of it had finally caused me to run.

After escaping the house, I had thrown in my lot with De Tham and taken my chances on board the great ship Vanora. It had been a hard life, and I was often tormented by the crew, both verbally and physically. Yet had I not been there, I would never have met Mitra.

I had loved her the instant that I saw her, just as I had in the case of Mlle. Daae, my beloved. And Mitra had been every inch of the angel that her namesake implied. Of course, she was not nearly as lovely as the exquisite Swedish vision that now clouded my every thought, but she had been beautiful all the same.

The daughter of a powerful Rajah, she had an air of exotic beauty that drew me like a moth to a flame. Raven hair, richly tanned skin, and a body that put goddesses to shame… she had stolen my breath the very instant that we first met. Indeed, I had loved her before I had even seen her face.

It had been a cool, quiet evening on the Vanora. Her sails were unfurled, and she cut cleanly through the calm waters along the Tonkin coast.

The day had been a busy one, for De had entrusted me with apprising and dividing our latest booty. The captain of the 'elegant lady', as he often referred to his ship, De Tham had far too many responsibilities to see to such a trivial task. He had spent his day sequestered with several of the better navigators in the crew, planning our next attack on a wealthy vessel.

Exhausted, but unable to sleep, I had been on deck as we stealthily approached our target for the evening. Despite my weariness, I was looking forward to a new conquest. It was only during the actual business of pirating that I ever truly felt like a member of the crew.

When we were looting, I was just another sword in the fray. Not a disfigured, unlucky freak. Not the captain's pet project. Not the uppity boy who only took books and papers as his shares of the winnings.

Just another sword.

So it was no surprise that I was eager to be at my work. I was actually quite good at it, and De had trained me well enough that I rarely had to kill in order to render an opponent immobile.

Back then, I had been greatly disturbed by taking life. If only things had never changed…

In a sense, it had been Mitra herself that alerted me to the new phase in my life, though I had not known it at the time. In the still, quiet evening, the soulful notes of her violin had been the first indicator that we were nearing our target. The song was mournful and solemn, and I immediately resolved to take the player captive for a time. Such art would be a wonderful distraction from the long hours of loneliness.

But when I fought my way to my intended captive, surprise had leapt up and taken my windpipe in hand. I had been struck dumb by the young princess's beauty and nearly forgot to count her violin and personal possessions as my loot when the fighting was over. Every last man in the crew had eyed up my prize with a bit of longing, but on De Tham's ship there was honor among thieves. No one would contest my right to the prisoner and goods that I had taken single handedly.

At the time, I had been deliriously oblivious to it all, or I would have likely run a few of the more lustful men threw with my own sword. I would have done anything for her, and anything to keep her, for she was my first love.

For much of my life, I had been completely cut off from any eligible members of the fairer sex. Mitra had been the awakening of all my needs as a man. I had just turned eighteen, and my newly acquired desires were stirred into a frenzy when I realized that she was mine.

Mine!

In the brief time that she remained in my monstrous presence, she had given me a taste of what it was to love, to desire.

But it was not to last…

Sighing softly, I turned my thoughts back to the present. It was foolish to dredge up the past off of the ocean floor when my future shone ahead of me like a bright beacon lighting my path. My secret love would one day give me all that I had been denied all those years ago, lighting up my life with a brilliance of another world.

With those happy thoughts in mind, I refocused on the little lantern that continued to bob along the shores of my lake. The dim glow outlined the girl against a backdrop of the stone arches that supported the ceiling of the underground ocean. I sometimes tried to imagine those pesky structures away, so that I might pretend that my rowboat was the Vanora, and that I had returned to the sea.

Yet I dismissed my fanciful dreams with growing unease as the chit began to draw near to my abode. There was only a worn door imbedded in the rock to suggest any sort of dwelling, but I could not allow her to come upon it. Who knew (quite literally) what sort of trouble she might bring to my doorstep?

Though she was unsteady on the glistening rocks under her slippered feet, she had nearly managed to walk half of the shore line of my lake while I daydreamed. I wanted to slap myself for being lost in thought for such a ridiculous amount of time, especially when I had something more important to do … such as protecting my identity.

Franticly, I rummaged about my mind for some way to stop her. She was within mere yards of seeing the entrance to my kingdom when I finally did the only thing that came to mind.

Throwing my voice in a desperate attempt to shift her attention, I sent a loud 'crack' to the other side of the water.

How was I to know that the stupid girl would loose her footing?

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_**Author's Notes: **Sorry again about the wait and the short chapter. (growls in frustration) Education … what can you do?_

_So, guesses on what's coming up?_

_Did you like my brief glimpse into Eric with a C's past? Trust me, there is more where that came from. And I am definitely not basing his past on Kay's book, as I have not read it. Eric's past here is my own warped creation. As for the pirate thing, I know it sounds a bit odd at first (or second … or third) glance, but if you want my justification, look in Leroux's novel. _

_Late in the book, while the dargoa is trapped in the mirror room I think, he mentions that Eric is somehow connected to the Tonkan pirate, De Tham, and it has something to do with the trick of the reeds. So I say it is not completely unbelievable that Eric had something to do with them at one point in his poor, poor little life. Oh, and don't go thinking that De Tham is some sort of niceity nice father figure for Eric, cause he's not … more on Eric's nutty mother, De Tham, Mitra, Azadeh, and something really creepy about Eric's dad later on in the story … but till then you can only wonder, ponder, and stew._

_Muahaha._

_But seriously, send me any guesses!

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_

**Tigger-** Oui, ominous. Is this ominous enough? (lighting and thunder effects from a cheesy horror fic roll in the background as she cackles madly)

**Empress Kipper**- Hah! Eric and his check list had me laughing so hard, because part of me was actually considering putting something like that in this chapter at first. Unfortunately, I ended up changing it, cause I didn't want to add humor to a serious chapter. It may come up later though… The alien thing made me laugh too, and I have not really been in love yet either, so I guess we'll both have to watch out for that one.

**JPT-** I too am decidedly 'old fashioned', though it has more to do about my faith in God then my sense of history. :D You really did like that line about the nudity, didn't you? I am seriously going to have to put a scene in this story that involves Eric streaking in the lair. Fun for all the readers! (and the writer I might add) As for the mouse in the pocket, that is what I thought it was supposed to mean, but a little while ago, I heard someone use the term 'pocket mouse' to indicate a guy's … erm … family jewels.


	53. It Burns Like Fire, P1

And now, for the chapter everyone has been waiting for.

(Please don't hurt me for being late. Even though this update is on the short side again, I should have another chapter up sooner this time.)

**

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Chapter Fifty Three: It Burns Like Fire

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**Leah**

At first, there was only darkness.

Cool water sloshed over my feet, and tiny stones dug into the tender skin of my back. Slowly, I realized that my head was aching horribly; throbbing as though it had been smashed into a thousand pieces by a hammer of titanic proportions.

I vaguely remembered having been in the fifth cellar … walking the shore to calm my head … when I heard an odd snapping noise behind me. I had turned quickly to find the source, fearing that I was not alone in the artificial night. But the rocks under my slippers had been so wet …

"You must have fallen and hit your head, you ninny." I chided myself. "You have been making a complete buffoon of yourself lately, but this takes the cake. What possessed you to stay here in the first place? In the dark, no less!"

Vaguely, I noticed strange sensations that jolted through my lips and chest, but I paid them little mind.

Then the reality of what I had done began to sink in. I had fallen and …

Hit my head!

"I am I dead?" I wondered, not completely unafraid. "Is this heaven or hell?"

I must have spoken the last question, for after a moment of the tensest sort of silence, I received a strained, whispered answer that would alter the course of my life forever.

"Neither, I am afraid." Replied a quiet, but distinctly masculine voice that stirred up memories with every syllable it uttered.

My heart proceeded to cease beating inside my chest as my eyes fluttered open, searching for my old … well, I wasn't quite sure about precisely what our relationship had been. Yet whatever we once were or currently could be, I knew that it was the solid ground of earth that lay coarsely against my back.

It was the voice of Señor.

It was not until my eyes finally began to focus upon the object of my thoughts that I questioned the reasons behind his presence in such a strange place. Indeed, the task of locating him was made all the more difficult by the mask that he wore.

As black as the oblivion around us, the mask revealed nothing save for a sizable portion of his forehead and his glimmering eyes. I could barely meet his gaze at all, for the device hung crookedly, as though it had just been replaced in a great hurry. It would have concealed his entire face from view under normal circumstances, leaving only his eyes unfettered by its confines.

His eyes…

As I attempted to make out the shapes above me more clearly, I was puzzled by his eyes. Where I had once observed a pair of earthy brown irises, I know saw only glimmering circles that reflected the light of my lantern and burned into my own. Bright like a cat's, they seemed to blaze with fire…

"_They burn like fire…"_

Foggily, I knew that the fact ought to mean something significant, but I could not place it. I was too preoccupied with freeing my mind from its daze to bother with something so trivial. Yet it continued to repeat itself in my head during the silent seconds that passed as I went about righting myself.

"_Eyes that burn like fire. Burn like fire…"_ The words continued, like a strange sort of chant from the recesses of my memory.

What did it mean?

My surroundings were becoming more and more clear and I recognized the shore of the lake, the stone walls of the cellar … and oddly enough, a small wooden door.

"_His eyes burn like fire, suspended in midair…" _

What had Meg been explaining? Something one of the firemen had seen had seen just the other night, but what had it been?

His eyes continued to study me in without a sound, engulfed in amber flames.

"_He can find you anywhere with his eyes that burn like fire."_ She had said.

'"_No! He has a death's head." _ Someone else had argued. _"His twisted skin is taught and dirty yellow, stretched over a demonic skull. It is decaying and maggot riddled like a week old corpse, a walking skeleton! Instead of a face, it has a grinning skull with empty sockets. Joseph saw him..."_

Him who? Who had it been?

"_Joseph saw him! He said it was …"_

My groggy eyes darted traitorously to the skin on his brow.

I was paralyzed instantaneously, cut off from the air.

"… _The Phantom of the Opera!"_

It struck me with all of the weight of a two ton boulder in the chest, crushing my lungs and denying me any attempt to breath. His eyes narrowed as I stiffened, immobile as a stone in the wake of my confusion, repulsion, and utter terror.

"Mademoiselle? Is something wrong?" He asked softly, his burning gaze familiar as he searched me for injury.

The eyes in the shadow, the watcher that I had sometimes sensed … They had been real! Now I dearly wished that I could continue to dismiss it as a figment of my fanciful imagination, the way that I had for so many years. That hot, searching, invasive stare…

"_They burn like fire…"_

This was impossible! Surely something so fantastic, so utterly inconceivable, could not be true!

Even my pupils were suspended where they lay, fixed on his eyes and his terrible skin. How could something so disgusting cling to the bones of the living?

"…_like a buried corpse…"_

"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle Iglesias? Can you hear me?" He tentatively began to extend a glove hand towards me, though whether to revive me or murder me, I could not tell.

A small voice within me reasoned that he would never harm me. This was Señor! This was the one man who had been kind enough to see such an unattractive, unpromising spinster of an errand girl, the man who had been so kind to me the night of Philippe's betrayal, the man who had often sent me flowers.

But the tiny cry was drown out by the rest of my conscious mind, for it was shaking, gibbering wordlessly in terror at the idea of his touch. The opera ghost had killed! And now I was at his mercy!

"…_a walking skeleton…"_

No! This couldn't possibly be real. Surely I was dreaming! Señor and this –thing- could not be one and the same. No, no it was not true. Utterly untrue.

But yet, here he was. Inches from my skin.

"…_His twisted skin is taught and dirty yellow…"_

Coming closer.

No, this was … inconceivable. I must wake up!

Some evil emotion began to cloud his brilliant eyes, dangerous in its intensity. "Mademoiselle? Please wake up! Oh Mon Dieu, not again!"

Closer.

"…_a grinning skull with empty sockets…"_

What was that smell? The aroma of rotting sewage hung thick in the air.

Was that him?

"…_maggot riddled flesh…"_

Closer.

God in heaven, HE was the smell!

"…_week old corpse…"_

"Mademoiselle? Leah? Leah, please wake up!" His bright eyes grew frantic and he made to grab my shoulder.

The stillness within me snapped like a tight wire, and my body jolted suddenly in a hysterical attempt to escape. The horror of the mangled flesh I had unknowingly seen, the revolting stench of the monster that I had one kissed –Kissed!-, and the knowledge that I had not even been subjected to the sight of all of his vile features filled me with urgency and speed that I had not known that I possessed.

The twisted man sprang back as I leapt out of his clutches, holding his gloved hand to his chest as though I had stung him.

I!

Harming him!

But my mind focused solely on my flight. I soon slowed my frantic pace, for in my terror I had left the lantern behind. My fear of the dark returned one thousand fold as I searched about me for those eyes in the gloom. Had he followed me? Where was I? Was I to be the next victim of his evil deeds?

My heart, so still before, now practically hummed in its exertions and my breath came in short, frightened gasps. I felt along the clammy surface of the rough walls, praying for escape to present itself. My slippers were long gone, having flown off in my feverish dash.

Was that a rustle behind me?

"_Death's head."_

A footstep to my right?

"_Rotting."_

How long would it be before I died?

"_Eyes that burn like fire…"_

"_Burn like fire…"_

And it was then that I saw light in the darkness.

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_**Authoress's Notes: **Did I do justice to the emotions here? What did you guys think of the idea for this meeting? Any guesses on what's coming up?_

_**INCONCEIVABLE!**_

_**You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means… **_

_(Hooray for everybody who understands that joke, and shame on you if you don't! Get your booty out of the computer chair and go rent 'Princess Bride'. Well, hop to it!)

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_

**Tigger-** Alas indeed! Education does need interrupting here and there, no? Ok, is THIS ominous enough for you? I am so glad that you got De Tham! I could hug you! (cheesecake instead.) And yes, I seriously think Eric is going to go streaking. Here's a hint on what I'm thinking about: I just saw the movie 'The Aviator'. Thoughts?

**Empress Kipper-** I have not seen Good Will Hunting. I know, I know, I lead a sheltered life. You'll have to explain it to me. But I am so very very very GLAD that I cause such a mental workout! That was my goal, and it is nice to know that I have achieved it. I can promise a lot more of these sweat drenching exercise sessions to come. As for the violin … you never know with these sort of things…

**Fish-** thanks for finding the time to review. I'm so glad that your job seems to be agreeing with you. Collage is a blast, and man oh man (thank you God!) there are a lot of nice men here. Nice looking and nice personalities. The looks aren't a prerequisite (else why oh why would I be writing this story) but they don't hurt either. Thanks for the warning, I hope this gets us all back on track! You probably have a little point about De, but that's just logic. Logic must be thrown to the wind! Muahaha!

**JPT-** Well, he is a determined little bugger, int he? We gotta give him props for that. As for your guessing, lets just say that the 'bad guesser' might have chalked up one more win to her name…

**Avid-** school? What's that? (snicker) I'm glad to hear from you again. I'm so happy that the lonliness is realistic, I was a bit worried about how it came off.


	54. It Burns Like Fire, P2

Sorry for the long wait, darlings, but I KNOW that part of this chapter will MORE than make up for it… (evil cackle)

Note for the readers: Several months have passed in between the last chapter and this one. It is now early fall.

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**Chapter Fifty Four: It Burns Like Fire, P.2

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**Leah**

On a modest street of the great city of Paris, a baby's cry issued forth in the evening.

In the bedroom of a small, respectable flat on that street, I wearily stood from my seat to see to her. Tiptoeing into the freshly painted nursery, I scooped up a very unhappy baby girl and began to calm her before she could wake her mother.

"Hush, Olivita." I murmured as I rocked the tiny infant. "Tu mama es soñoliento. You will wake her if you are not quiet."

Olivia paid no attention to my cautioning, continuing to wail like a banshee.

I quickly inspected her diaper, looking for the cause of her discomfort. Seeing nothing amiss there, I jumped to the next logical conclusion.

"Tienes hambre, bebe?" I asked as I entered the kitchen.

I quickly began to fix my godchild a bottle in the hopes of giving Beth a few more hours of sleep. The delivery had been a difficult one, and both mother and daughter had come perilously close to loosing their lives. Now that the two of them were home, I had taken up the unburdensome task of attending the two of them while Beval was at work.

It had been nearly a week before Sharla, my friend of so long ago, had declared them fit to be dismissed from St. Elizabeth's hospital, and I was ordered that under no circumstances was I to allow them to overexert themselves. The sweet woman had been promoted to the position of overseeing nurse since I had last seen her.

But now that the happy family had returned home, their health continued to improve. I was glad that I could provide a bit of assistance for Beth, for we had grown as close as two women could during the unendurable thirty eight hours of her labor, through which her mother and I had held her hands. Mme. Giry and I had formed a tighter bond as well, for neither of us had left the bedsides of our loved ones until they had come home. Even now, it was rare that one or the other of us was not constantly present in the Monet family flat.

I had been more than glad to be out of that dreadful hospital, and not simply for the fact that Beth was well. Every moment spent within its massive walls reminded me more and more of the time not so many years ago that I had been the one confined to a bed there.

Those memories wakened violent emotions inside me that were much better left dormant. The terror, the horror, the awful loss that had enveloped me like a death shroud in my month at the hospital now fanned flames of fear, hatred and rage in my breast, for I now knew the true cause of all my pain.

The opera ghost.

I could no longer bring myself to think of him as Señor. That was the name of a man that had been kind to me, the name of a man I had cared for as deeply as I had ever cared for any man. That was the name of a man that I had once fancied myself to love.

It was the name of a lie.

Fury burned through my stomach at the thought of all that he had done to me.

It had taken me several days to realize all the implications of my horrendous discovery that night on the shores of the dark lake. Before seeing that unspeakable sight, I had attempted to ignore rumors of the 'phantom', still embarrassed by my superstitious presumptions about the first time I had met the man. I had believed him to be one of the black ghosts and upon learning that he was indeed a man when he sent me his missive, I had resolved never to give in to such a foolish idea ever again.

"How ironic." I growled, rocking little Olivia in my lap as she nursed her bottle. "First he was a ghost, then he was a man, and now he is both at once. Isn't it amusing, bebe?"

The sweet newborn was far too entranced with her meal to pay any attention to her crazy old spinster of a godmother. With a little gurgle that brought a smile to my lips in spite of my dark thoughts, she continued to imbibe the sweet milk like a drunk at his whiskey.

"More like you at your gin than anything else." I upbraided myself sourly.

I hated to admit my newfound sin, even if it was only to myself, but it was the truth. As soon as Tina came to 'relieve me of my duties' that night, I would head like an arrow back to the Garnier in search of my booze.

"It is entirely his fault!" I cried softly to the silent room, empty save for myself and the babe in my arms. "I would never have begun to drink again if I hadn't seen … that."

Once Beth had rescued me from the shores of the lake, returning for a forgotten article of clothing, I had shut myself away in my room for three days. I had only come out for food, the lavatory, and to beg a few bottles of strong alcohol off of Sorelli.

I had hated to have anything to do with the woman, but she was the only female in the opera house to keep liquor of that sort of strength on hand, and I would have made the niceties with Lucifer himself if it meant being able to erase that nauseating image from my head for a few hours.

Even now, nearly a month and a half after the fact, I was still unable to sleep without nursing a few shots of my carefully acquired gin. The vile substance burned like fire when it coated my throat, but it numbed the overwhelming tide of thoughts that had begun to spout furiously from my mind as soon as I gave thought to what I had seen.

Even in my sleep he tormented me, for I could not close my eyes without first becoming quite inebriated, else the memories of him would haunt me into insomnia. And despite achieving uneasy rest almost every night with the aid of my newfound ally, that odious man continued to plague me even when unconscious.

I had rarely been given to dreaming a great deal before 'the incident' at the lake, but now my nights were brimming with horrendous nightmares that were simply too disturbing to even consider recording them here. And my sleep was by no means restful, for Tio Giry often found me wandering the dark halls of the opera house in the wee hours of the morning, sleepwalking in naught but my pantalets and a shift.

But the sleepless nights were far from the worst of the crimes my heart accused him of committing, the villain. It had taken the entirety of those fitful first three days to fully comprehend just what I had been witness to.

Once the shock of my realization had worn off, I had seen the full scope of all his crimes against me. The truth had dawned upon me slowly, like the pieces of one of Joseph's mind numbing puzzles slowly fitting into place.

It had been passed about in the circles of gossip that the opera ghost had been the engineer of the stunt that had maimed me years ago. At the time I had dismissed it, sure that the ghost was merely a myth. Now I knew better.

He had been the reason for my imprisonment in that sterile, white curtained hell of a hospital. He had stolen my ability to dance, pilfered my joy in life away like a rat stealing cheese. Those words still left ice in the pit of my bowels and unquenchable anger in my chest. That man, that _monster_, had taken the best thing in my life without a second thought.

As though that injury had not been deep enough, that _freak_ had had the _gall _to feign interest in my person. He had preyed on my loneliness, deliberately I was sure, obviously wanting to wound me further.

He must have had quite a few laughs at my expense, knowing that I was ignorant of the fact that I was willingly seeing the man who had condemned me to be a spinster for the rest of my days.

True, Philippe and his rude rumors about me had not helped me in that case, but it was quite rare for a woman who performed at the Garnier to leave her career without at least a claim as some noble's mistress, or more often as an average gentleman's wife. When my stage life was cut short, so too were my chances for a family.

Staring at little Olivia, who had fallen asleep in my arms some time ago, I felt the weight of that absence like a knife in my side.

"I won't ever have this, will I bebe?" I choked out in a whisper. "No child to sing to and kiss. No _marido_ to hold me as we sleep."

My breath became jagged with unshed grief. "No one of my own to love."

"I am alone." Pain, loss, agony, and regret burned fiercely in me, but the tears that were meant to release them never came.

The sensation of cold emptiness began to fill me, coming unwanted and unbidden. To hell with making my mother proud! I had realized just how badly I had mutilated myself on the day that Henry left, when I discovered that I was incapable of weeping. The pain tore through me like the burns I had once seen in St. Elizabeth's.

After putting the little girl to sleep in her own cradle, I returned to Beth's side. While I waited for Tina to come to watch over them for the night, my mind continued to dwell on my hatred and my ever growing need for gin. I loathed the fact that I now depended on the distasteful stuff for my sanity, but I could no longer survive without it. I had tried several times to give up the bottle, but failed at every attempt.

"Damn him." I cursed softly. "Damn him to hell!"

* * *

**Eric

* * *

**

I was writhing in hell.

Since the moment my angel had uttered that fatal name, my soul had been in agony.

"Raoul."

When she spoke of him, a light filled her eyes such as I had never seen before, brilliant and hopeful. I had known who it must have been the instant she danced into her closet-like dressing room at the appointed hour of the evening. When she presented herself for lessons, I had been about to congratulate her.

The performance had been unexpectedly mediocre, and even that idiotic Spanish cow of a diva had been passable. My beloved had continued to hide her growing skill the best that she could, but such genius could not be concealed forever.

Even buried in the chorus, her voice had taken on just a hint of the heavenly beauty that would one day grace the ears of the best that Paris could offer. In a few short months, I would have crafted a voice in that delicate little throat that would coax the creator himself to wrap his power around her finger. My humble dowry had slowly begun to win her heart, I had foolishly believed, and once she had displayed her radiance and claimed my gift of the hearts of Paris she would surely love me in return.

But I had seen the error of my hope the moment that I made myself known to her.

Those sweet blue eyes, those terribly hopeful, happy eyes had warned me that something was amiss. That was the look that she would one day give to _me_, but now it was obviously displayed for the thought of another.

And she had proceeded to enlighten me about her childhood romance. How they had 'loved' one another at Perros, how he had abandoned my poor beloved at the end of the summer. Now, it seemed, the damnible creature had made pilgrimage to the very steps of my home! My darling little blonde divinity had seen him in the audience, and told 'her angel' that all her feelings of affection for the insufferable being had been revived, and that she was eager to absolve him of all his past sins against her precious person.

Scrambling wildly in my panic as I imbibed my nightly vodka, I had concocted a pile of sheep swollop that I was sure would placate her innocent young brain, when I explained it to her the next morning. I would tell her that her heart must be free of any earthly bond should she wish to continue under my tutelage.

Still, it was a risky maneuver. What if she forsook me for that little prat?

"I was too slow, God damn it!" I roared, flinging my glass of vodka into the steaming fireplace. It shattered into a thousand tiny shards that glittered back at me, mocking my futile attempts at winning her heart.

As the fire roared up, I welcomed the heat on my bare skin. I had burned all of my clothes earlier that night in my rage over the Viscomte's unwelcome appearance in my realm.

It did feel rather pleasant to be free of my cumbersome garments, but my mind was far from my state of undress.

"Will I never win?" I screamed. "Is there no hope for humanity? Am I doomed to rot in this hole till I die?"

"Will I always be alone?"

My tirade went on for several hours, as I ranted and wept by turn before limply collapsing in my coffin, utterly exhausted. Only now that my bothersome emotions were dealt with could I strategize with a calm, collected, focused method of thought.

"I must prepare for our first meeting." I pondered aloud to the pitch black room, straining for a plan. "Think, Eric! Think!"

"How soon can we allow her on stage? Obviously Eric cannot put her in the spotlight till she is ready, but neither can we meet her until she understands the proof of our love." The conundrum was fast approaching irritating.

After much deliberation, I decided that I would present her with the Jail cell aria from Faust in the midst of the variety of pieces for the gala performance. This gala performance was due in a few months time to celebrate the opera's changing hands. Though the idea of new management did give me slight pause, for I should have to cow a new pair of idiots, I gave it little thought compared to my beloved.

She had already been promised a short passage of Gounod's 'Romeo and Juliet', for the new choir master, Gabriel, had spotted her blooming promise. But it was not enough. For every hour I had spent drilling the lines of that romantic epic into her magnificent little mind, another two would be given over to Margarita's final aria in Faust.

She would shine like the brightest star, the hottest fire in all the earth when she sang that night. She would lift the audience up with her to the heights of heaven itself. She would be radiant, and she would know how dearly I cared for her.

There was the little problem of Carlotta, who was currently cast to sing that part, but it would be easy enough to alter when the time came.

"Yes, the gala it will be." I decided with a contented sigh. "She will learn to love us soon."

My slightly tipsy thoughts began to run towards that certain, fast approaching future. We would marry, have children … I would be like any other man.

But would she agree to wallow in this little rodent's den with me? Would she be alarmed by my mask?

As I drifted off into a sleep filled with dreams of my beloved, I began to solve every problem that I might encounter. I made a massive mental list of all of the supplies that I would require soon. Bonar would be quite busy for the next few weeks with gathering all that I would need.

Not to mention finding me new clothes.

* * *

_**Authoress's Notes**: Streaking! (and everybody gave a little cheer.)_

_Marido- husband in spanish

* * *

_

**Kipper-** Mmm. Eric and Axe. Almost as good as streaking Eric, but not quite. Hope you like this chapter a little better.

**JPT-** Well, then I shall lead away. Yes, it is not a fun chap., but this one is quite angsty as well. Well, more for Leah than for our favorite masked man, but that is just cause he's psychotically obsessed with a certain other someone. Idiot. Any who, I cannot make it all better now … or anytime in the near future … but it will get there eventually.

**Tigger-** Did you catch the aviator refrence?


	55. Dusty Souls

**

* * *

Chapter Fifty Five: Dusty Souls

* * *

**

**Leah**

I fingered the slim wooden box nervously as I approached the door.

My mind was still reeling from the shock I had received earlier in the morning.

The day had begun routinely enough. Nothing about my sparse breakfast had foretold the impending mystery. No one event in the early light of the rising sun had heralded the conspiracy that I was about to uncover.

Even the mundane schedule of my overwhelming workload for Mme. Bygler had seemed completely benign, aside from the fact that it threatened to drown me in its heavy tide. With the gala retirement performance only a week away and New Years Eve fast approaching, my sewing table had greeted me with an overflowing of last minute detailing for Carlota's voluminous skirts and several employee commissioned disguises that remained distressingly incomplete.

Much to my dismay, I had not been at my work for the whole of five minutes before I was accosted by my squinting supervisor. She deposited nearly twenty slim little packages and a small stack of order specifics on top of my neatly folded assignments and sharply informed me that I had more to finish for the Masque.

Ever since the woman discovered that I possessed some ability with paint, she had foisted every order for a decorated mask on me, despite my already unmanageable responsibilities.

With a disgruntled sigh that she either did not hear in her old age or simply chose to ignore as she left the room, I began picking through my new burdens. Each mask was unique, made from different substances and formed into different shapes by some of the craftsmen on the Garnier's payroll. Some were paper mache, some were ceramic, a few were leather or fur, and one was made from an odd composition that I could not quite place.

It was this strange mask that immediately caught my attention. It was crafted to be a wonderfully accurate mimic of the face and neck of a handsome young man. The material was somewhat flexible, and reminded me strongly of the stuff that is used to make children's bouncing balls.

I could instantly see that it had been crafted to mold itself to someone's face so snugly that no one would be able to tell the mask from the face, save for the fact that the mask was a glaring shade of white.

"Who on earth would want such an odd thing?" I wondered to myself as I absentmindedly fished its order form out of the small mountain on my desk. Upon discovering that the strange disguise was to be painted in a realistic fashion, I felt a prickling of despair. I had begun to rather admire the unconventional idea for a costume, but knew that I could never do the painting justice without a reference from which to paint.

"I shall just have to speak to the customer…" I thought aloud as I scanned the page for the name of the unlucky person. A bit surprised by the name, I wondered for a moment about how to find them at this hour of the morning before setting off to a tiny office that I had visited so often in the past.

An act that was so common place, so everyday as going about my work, should not have had such dire repercussions, yet it did. What I discovered in that slim wooden case would forever alter my bond with one of the most important people in my sheltered life.

He was not in when I arrived, but I knew Tio Giry's office quite well. Unlike his wife, a neat, precise woman, Tio Giry was quite disorganized. The dim little room was filled with every sort of knick-knack to ever have existed in the Garnier. Tools, old crusts of bread, open books and week old coffee mugs cohabitated happily in the cluttered room, perching on ever surface.

As I waited for him as patiently as I could, something caught my eye. Two pairs of tiny ballet slippers in a glass case were the only objects free of dust and clutter, displayed almost reverently on a shelf high above the chaos of the room.

I stood for several moments lost in my own thoughts, craning my neck to have a better view of what were undoubtedly his daughter's first pairs of shoes. Tiny, worn soles and dusty pink satin reminded me of my own first pair of slippers.

Abuelo had only bought them for me after weeks of pleading and whining on my part. Though he was less rigid about my interests and pursuits than mama and Abuela, there was still a vague line that dancing seemed to cross. Lessons on the pianoforte, he had indulged happily. A private master to teach me to paint had been gladly procured. Skills of that sort were excellent additions to any well bred girl's repertoire, for they were attractive qualities that would help her in her quest to obtain a suitable husband.

Ironically, the only attentions that either of those skills had ever managed to attract had been the attentions of one Cassius Blune.

Even sparring with Henry had been roughly ignored and tolerated, and sometimes chuckled about. But dancing … dancing had taken some convincing on my part. Young ladies of my station frequently took private lessons for ballroom dancing, yet ballet was an entirely different matter. Ballet was performed on the stage, and the stage was not acceptable.

The very stage that had shown me my freedom had been my downfall in the end, but I had realized it too late.

Lost in thought, I failed to see the table behind me as I continued to shuffle backwards. Letters, inventory lists, memos, and blueprints lay in a jumbled heap on the floor before I knew what had happened. Carefully abandoning my little box, I stooped to gather the papers and return them to their roost on the chair. But as I hurried to set things to right, a letter caught my eye.

Disbelieving, I picked up the morbid, black lined paper with trembling fingertips. I held it nearly at arms length from my body, as though it were some vicious breed of beast that would attack without warning. Surely there had to be some other explanation for the incriminating evidence in my hands! Surely, Tio Giry … he would not!

It could not be true.

And yet, the handwriting was that of a drunken four year old, written in blood red ink.

* * *

_P-_

_I have enclosed several lists of materials that I shall require immediately. I trust you will do your duty and procure them for me. Also, make the purchase of that plot of land we spoke about earlier. Pay them whatever they require, and furnish it as I have outlined._

_My Regards,_

_E-_

_

* * *

_

I could not believe my eyes.

How could it be true? How could Tio Giry be aligned with that …. that …. _man_?

Didn't he know what he had done to me?

My questions were cut short when the object of my inquiries appeared in the door behind me. I turned quickly and stood, nearly loosing my balance and clutching the incriminating document to my chest.

For a moment, we simply stood staring at one another, gap-mouthed in the wake of my discovery. Tio Giry seemed taller than ever seeming to loom larger than his usual foot or so over my head. Coal black eyes glittered back at me from his slightly wrinkled, sun bronzed face, framed by a well trimmed beard that seemed to bristle with surprise.

Embarrassment flitted through my veins, but it was quickly replaced by seeds of incredulity and a sense of being wounded, knowing that this man who was like an uncle to me had aided the monster who had killed my dreams. Anger grew from them like a weed, so that when Tio Giry was finally able to speak again, I was quite upset.

"What are you doing in here, child?"

"I came to speak to you about_ that_" I seethed, barely missing the little box with the mask inside with the toe of my worn leather boot. "But I found this."

I gestured wildly with the terrible letter, nearly throwing it at him as my voice grew louder.

He looked startled, and began to reply, but I refused to allow him a word.

"I know who wrote this, Tio!" I boomed out, my voice hot and full of fire. "I know who he is! I, of all people in this damned opera house, I know very well who he is! How could you?"

"How could you work with that TERRIBLE man? Don't you know what he did? He is a cruel monster who has hurt me time and time again, like others before me I have no doubt. How can you stand there, knowing that you are _aiding_ him? Don't you understand what he took away from me? How could you … Why did you …"

"Leah, give me a momen-

"He is a MONSTER! And you run his little errands for him and try to trick me into making a mask to hide his true nature from the world. You are just as guilty as him!"

"Why, damnit? Why?" I screeched like a feral cat, wadding up the awful note and hurling it at his head.

My aim had never been very good, and the ball of stationary fell harmlessly at his feet before he found the breath to reply.

"Leah," he breathed out slowly, considering his words, "sit down fille, you are shaking like a leaf."

He quickly cleared off a chair and fussed over me in an all too familiar, nearly fatherly manner that was too familial for my comfort. But he was right. My anger had drained away what little energy I had found in my nights of troubling sleep, and I sat.

He began to pace the small floor, stroking his beard and mulling over what he ought to say. At the same time, emptiness and sadness began to fill me painfully. I wanted so badly to believe that I had made some sort of mistake, that I was wrong in my assumptions, yet the expression on his face wordlessly confirmed my worst fears.

"Please, Tio…" I choked, unable to cry but needing to more than anything, "Please tell me that it isn't true."

All I wanted from life at that moment was to hear him calm me and tell me that I had jumped to conclusions. Like a child, I wished that he would somehow make everything all better and release me from my anguish.

But he did not.

"Oh child, I wish that I could. The truth is, I _have_ helped him."

I stiffened, knowing that my worst fears were true. How could I have ever trusted him? How could I trust anyone now?

"Why?" I spoke with a sharp, cold edge. "Why?"

"Because," he sat down next to me and sighed heavily, "He once helped someone I love. He saved their life. It is a debt I cannot repay."

"Oh." It was the only word that I could seem to form. Shock reverberated through every corner of my body.

That thing had HELPED someone?

"And I know, yes." His sigh was much deeper than before, heavy with regret. His voice grew lower and gained a sort of pained rasp. "I know … what he has done. But fille, you must understand, he is not the monster you believe him to be."

"Wha…!"

"Let me explain, fille. You have heard the adage 'do not judge a man until you have walked a mile in his shoes'?"

"Oui…"

"Fille, if you were to walk in his shoes, you would weep and weep until the day that you died. He has known so much pain in his life that I am not sure if he is even capable of understanding what he does…"

For several hours, Tio Giry told me what he knew of this mysterious ghost.

* * *

**…**

* * *

When he finally ended his tale, we sat in silence.

I could no longer find it in me to blame Tio Giry, and sympathized with his obligation, promising my silence. I knew that I would now be protecting the man I despised, if only with omission of the truth I now knew, but my love for my surrogate family in the opera house was great enough to conquer all else.

And though I hated myself for admitting it, I began to understand what Tio had meant about shoes. How could anyone survive so much pain in one short lifetime?

Yet my own pain still battled in my heart with my pity, and the latter was finally kept at bay. The horror of his twisted, abhorrent face still would haunt my dreams, and his uncaring hand had stripped me of my joy. And I had no idea about how I ought to feel about his romantic advances towards me. Perhaps they had not been malicious, as I had once thought… I should have been relieved that he had ceased his attentions to my person. Surely I was happy to be free of his slightly mad clutches.

Wasn't I?

Hate still stirred inside me, for this man had committed the most reprehensible sin of all. He had stolen a small portion of my heart.

I did not love him. I was not sure if I ever had, yet some tiny part of me still held a smidgen of tenderness for the man that had once been so kind to me. Had he too, perhaps, felt some small amount of something? Or was it too much to hope?

Damn it, why should I care what he felt? He was an insane, monstrous devil who had killed the best thing I had ever had!

And yet…

I did not know what I felt, but I knew that hate was the prevalent emotion, and I clung to it like a drowning woman.

But whatever my emotions, I was still a woman and I was still curious by nature.

"Tio?"

"Yes, fille?"

"Who are 'P' and 'E'?"

Again, he carefully considered his words before he spoke. "P is short for Persian. It is his name for me."

"Persian?"

"Oui, fille. Apparently, the Monsieur knew my father before he died, when my father was a chief of police in Persia. After my mother, a Frenchwoman, died, I was sent back to live with my relatives in Paris."

"As for the 'E' … I wish that I knew. I do not know his name."

"Oh."

More confused than ever, I bid Tio Giry a soft goodbye with a reassuring smile. Though a bit shaken, my faith in him had slowly returned.

I left in search of Tina and a quiet lullaby for a midday nap, my deadlines be hanged.

I had recently discovered that listening to her singing was nearly as soothing as my alcohol, and had many of the same drugging effects. I had never heard her sing so beautifully as she did now, and she attributed it to a mysterious voice teacher and had been willing to say no more.

Yet reaching her dressing room, I heard not one voice …

But two.

* * *

_**Authoress's notes:**_

_Late again … collage is a pain. Who needs an education anyway?_

_And Ok, Ok, I know that the whole Persian M Giry thing is a stretch, but please tell me it is semi-believable?

* * *

_

**Empress Kipper-** Thank you thank you thank you! All your flattery keeps me at finishing this beast of a story. I'm so glad that everybody seems to like alcoholic Leah. I mean, not that we want her to be a drunk or anything, but how would you deal with the fact that there's some freaky deformed nut job in your basement with hygiene issues? Any who, yes, I am on face book. I will email you with my page. Oh, and Henry is on an expedition to the Antarctic. (Leroux readers can make some guesses about the future of the plot by knowing this…)

**Tigger-** and here I thought everybody read this cause I'm just so darn sexy…

**JPT-** your mom heart may jump to take care of the sick psycho … but my unmarried woman heart jumps to 'hey, let's go cuddle with the lonely messed up psycho!' Perhaps it is a good thing that Eric is only a fictional character… Thanks for liking that transition. I was particularly proud of it myself.


	56. Heaven and Hell

* * *

…_Oh and baby,_  
_ When you kiss me_  
_ You go raising the damned out of hell._

_If you miss me,  
Then my soul is alive and well._

_If you love me,  
The years ahead are shining so bright._

_If you hold me  
Through the darkest night,  
Then I can almost believe you  
When you say it's all right._

_If you kiss me  
You're saving the damned out of hell…_

_-mine

* * *

_

**Chapter Fifty Six: Heaven and Hell

* * *

**

**Eric**

For the first time in my retched life, I was happy.

As my beloved sang for me in her tiny dressing room, it seemed that I was on the brink of overflowing with all the joy that life could ever offer me. All of my plans were coming to fruition, and I secretly wondered if God had finally decided to bestow his pity upon me.

By the end of the week, I would have a perfect mask with which to greet my future bride. She would triumph at the gala performance, and I would whisk her away and profess my love. She would accept with her whole heart when she realized all that I had done for her, and she would be mine by the time that the estate that I had purchased was ready to accommodate a newly wed couple.

With Giry's help, I had bought a beautiful mansion, set on acres and acres of woods and immaculate gardens. With a few repairs that I had already ordered, and furnishings that were being shipped to the Parisian countryside from far and wide, I would give my beloved the most wonderful home that she could ever imagine.

It saddened me slightly that I would no longer control the wonderful opera house that I was so fond of, but as I considered it, I knew that my angel would never flourish if I shut her away in this tomb in the earth. She deserved far more than that, in thanks for all that she would provide for me. She would be my wife, and my greatest salvation, giving me a life under the sun and a hand to hold. I knew that I could make her the happiest of women, for I would provide everything that she could ever want or need to repay the celestial gift of freedom that she would soon bless me with.

Thus I had gladly obtained a real home, and a real face with which to hide my curse from her. When we were wed at last, I knew, I would not be able to hide my nauseating face from those breathtaking blue eyes, yet I could not allow her to see it before she loved me as deeply as I did her. With a wedding band on her finger, surely my precious goddess would not be frightened by my misfortune.

Hope bubbled up within me as I was caressed by the sound of her sweet, crystalline voice.

_Anges purs, anges radieux,_

_Portez mon cour au sein des cieux_

Margarita's powerful words of faith resounded majestically from the perfectly crafted voice that I had set so carefully into my angel's delicate little throat, bending the heartstrings of any who listened. Even I was nearly moved to tears by the emotion that pulsed through every note of her part.

I, Eric, who had lost his heart nearly twenty years ago to a dead woman, felt the stirrings of joy and love inside my breast as though I had been reborn! Had I never believed in paradise before this moment, I would have been the most ferverent convert to ever fall to my knees.

This woman, her voice, her innocence, her lips, her smile, her skin… there was not a part of her that did not bare the most unspeakable fingerprints of her heavenly creator. Ever inch of her breath taking body was a testament to his perfect artistry. Such a fragile work of art was meant to be cared for with only the most careful of hands, and adorned with the most dazzling riches of earth.

Indeed, Christine Daae was a precious relic in the rubbish bin of humanity, made to be rescued and reverently enshrined away from the prying eyes of mortal men.

And I would be her truest worshiper: A monk, a priest who would keep constant vigilance over the eternal flames upon her alter.

"You will see, my love." I thought silently. "I shall indeed carry you off to heaven."

All too soon, her divine lips lay still in her perfectly sculpted face.

My angel was patient and quiet, but waited expectantly for my critique. Once the poor darling had ceased to believe that she was mad and hearing voices in her imagination, she had quickly become a devoted and obedient student. To my delight, she now obeyed me without question, and always waited for me to speak to her.

I had been reluctant to impose the latter rule on the inquisitive girl, but she had asked far too many questions for her own good until I disallowed them.

Startled by her quiet sigh as she delicately folded herself into her tiny lounge, I left my musings of devotion behind and franticly raced to find the correct train of thought.

It was a few moments before I found the voice to speak. Though there were still several minor errors to correct in her stunning performance, I could not find it within me to chastise the woman I loved this afternoon. She looked to docile, so content, … so extraordinarily beautiful, that I could not force the reproaches from my thin, wizened lips.

"That was excellent, my child." I nearly purred, calling on all the strength within me not to use my voice to seduce her there and then.

"Oh thank you, Angel! I am so glad that you are happy!" She cried happily, leaping to her feet and giving a little laugh in her excitement like a babe of three.

"Yes, I am well pleased with your progress." I could hardly stop myself from flinging my God forsaken body through the glass that separated us and professing my love that instant.

"Shall we work on another piece then, ma fille?" I inquired in an attempt to restrain my lustful thoughts.

I nearly wept for joy when she asked to sing the wedding duet from 'Romeo et Juliet' with me. On the rare occasions when I could bring myself to sing with her, the emotions within me grew to an intensity that was nearly painful.

The unearthly way that the instrument I had given her resonated with my own was magical enough for a miracle of the saints. The way that I could feel her voice intermingling with mine as the vibration of our duets echoed in my chest was like a foretaste of heaven itself. I could hardly stutter out a yes before we began, thanking every saint and angel I could remember from my troubled childhood.

So mesmerized was I, by both the music that we had just created and the unrivaled beauty of my beloved's body, that I did not hear the knock at my angel's door that came moments after we finished.

**

* * *

Leah

* * *

**

When I first arrived at Tina's door, I could not bring myself to interrupt the unrivaled beauty of her song.

I had never heard her give voice to such emotion, such hopeful _passion_ in all the years I had known her. The open, honest quality of her voice was like a window into her naked soul, and the sounds she drew forth from it came as close as anything had in ten long, painful years to making me weep aloud.

I leaned against the rough plaster of the dim hallway's wall, drinking in the astonishing, compelling music that flooded every sense. Though I rarely attended the opera any longer, due to lack of funds and my propensity to develop excruciating headaches when exposed to loud noises for extended periods of time, I felt as though I could stand there forever.

It had been so long since I had simply_ listened_ to a beautiful piece of music, merely for the sake of hearing it. Most often, I was far too caught up in the details of production to appreciate the vibrant emotions that a song could instill. I closed my eyes and enjoyed myself for a few moments, until she finished on a final, triumphant note that must have reverberated throughout the entire house.

After a few moments of carefully allotted silence, I began to lift my tired body away from the dusty wall.

But I froze when an all too familiar voice issued out from the tiny room.

"That was excellent, my child."

Disbelief, outrage, and every sentiment in between the two instantly flared up in my furious chest as I over heard their brief conversation and drew my own terrible conclusions.

"_Quand on parle du loup on en voit la queue!" _I growled angrily under my breath before approaching the door.

How dare that … that … **bastard**! Did he think that he could get away with hurting another as he had hurt me? Did he honestly believe that I would allow such an ill breed, goat sucking lout attempt to seduce someone who was like a sister or a daughter to me?

Any pity I that I had held in my heart for the man slipped through my fingers like sand through clenched fists.

He would dearly rue the day he laid eyes on Tina! I had never ceased to practice fencing, and I was still young enough to move dangerously.

With the utter contempt that was pulsing through my veins, I would kill him shearly with the force of my will!

And he had thought I would provide him with a disguise! I would disguise him, all right!

_I would sever his licentious head from his filthy body!_

Yet any thought of righteous fury, any thought of anything for that matter, evaporated like steam when they began to sing.

**That music! **

I had never heard anything so heartrending, so utterly overflowing with power and emotion in the entire span of my life. I slid to the floor in a daze, hypnotized by the raw splendor of the pure music that thrummed in the air around me. If I had been amazed by Tina's voice, then I was struck dumb by the haunting majesty of what I heard now.

The vibrant, unfathomable potency of their duet came as close as anything ever had to reminding me of what it was like to dance. This, _this_ was a reason to live, and I could have died happily on the spot if they never ceased their singing.

And when he began to sing a verse by himself, I truly thought I _had_ died. Surely I was ascending the stairway to heaven on the steps of each note!

That voice, oh Dios mio!

That voice was the most divine, glorious sound that had ever graced my ears. It was so commanding, so full of brilliant light and eloquent persuasion. Every word from his lips, even deformed though I knew them to be, was like the sweetest chocolate on earth melting on my tongue.

That rapturous voice could have instructed me to leap from the very top of the Garnier's roof, and I would have gladly obeyed.

It could even have compelled me into his terrifying bed, and as long as the voice remained I would have been like clay on a potter's wheel.

It was only when the music stopped that I was able to remember just what I had been doing. With a forceful bang on the poor little door, I called out Tina's name and stormed in.

My hermanita's sweet little face was a picture of abject elation, and her eyes were as clouded as a dead man's. It took some minutes before I was able to rouse her from her catatonic state, as I puzzled over the lack of a certain man in the room.

When she finally realized that there was another person in the room, she was startled and taken aback.

"Leah?" She murmured uncertainly, as one only half awake. "What are you doing here?"

I spoke to her as though she were a little child, patiently stating my purpose as though it were an obvious fact. "I've come to tell you that it is time for your nap, hermana. You must go and lie down in one of the dormitories now."

"Yes … I'll go lie down now…" She droned as she stumbled out of the room.

All of the motherly tenderness that had been in my voice for Tinita instantly vanished like a puff of smoke.

"I know you are here, _ghost_." I hissed dangerously, emphasizing my loathing by refusing to address him by his title. "Come out where I can see you!"

Several minutes of silence on his part did little to calm my wrath.

"Perhaps you are too much of a coward to face a woman who knows the truth about you, yes?"

Still no reply came.

"Damn you, you awful man! Stay away from Tina. I warn you, if you intend to break her heart as you did mine, you will regret it until the day you die!"

Even my threats provoked no response.

"I hate you! You gave me hope and then stole it away! Bastard! Answer me, you son of a pig!"

Still nothing.

"Well, if you don't have the manhood to come out and face me, I have no reason to act as your _errand girl_." I tossed the little wooden box to the floor with a violent crash. "You will get NOTHING from me! Ever! Do you hear?"

My temper at its precariously low boiling point, I stormed out of the room after shouting one final insult over my shoulder.

"Fine, burn in hell for all I care!"

* * *

_**Authoress's Notes: **_

_The excerpt from Faust roughly translates to:_

_Holy Angel, heaven blessed, _

_My soul longs with thee to rest_

_Or more literally:_

_Pure angel, radiant angel,_

_Carry my soul to the bosom of heaven_

'_Quand on parle du loup on en voit la queue' is a French proverb that translates literally as: 'Talk of the wolf, and you will see his tail'. We would more often associate it with the phrase: 'Speak of the Devil, and he will appear.'

* * *

_

**Empress Kipper-** I don't know the movie, sorry. You shall have to enlighten me. I'm glad you like her temper, it will be featured a lot more.

**Tigger-** Huzzah for eavesreading! I emailed you. I'm so happy that someone commented on the Giry/Persian thing, cause I was very concerned to know if it works or not.

**Fish-** Arg. Every time I invent a theory, I am disproven by my wonderfully intellectual beta fish. By the way, some girls in my hall just got a REAL beta fish, and I got to name it. I named it Moe. I will have to devise a scheme for the reasoning behind her disownment now… Arg.

**JPT-** Well, I do know which method I would more enjoy… though I have this odd feeling that everybody's favorite crazy man would run screaming if he saw me coming… oh well, since I'm the authoress, I'll just temporarily blind him until I move in for the kill…(giggle)


	57. All I Loved, P1

_

* * *

From childhood's hour I have not been  
As others were; I have not seen  
As others saw; I could not bring  
My passions from a common spring.  
From the same source I have not taken  
My sorrow; I could not awaken  
My heart to joy at the same tone;  
And all I loved, I loved alone._

_-'Alone', Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

_

**Chapter Fifty Seven: All I loved, P.1

* * *

**

**Eric**

My fingers trembled like startled sparrows.

So great was my excitement, that I could hardly keep my digits steady enough to select the correct ingredients.

"You must take hold of yourself, Eric! This is important!" I grumbled aloud as I began to collect the various mixing containers and chemicals that I would need to complete the most important drug I had ever concocted.

"Tonight is the night that you shall offer up our soul to our goddess, our dove."

"Eric's Angel!"

In the semi-darkness of a small room in my underground home, I set up the equipment for my special elixir. The walls were lined with glasses, jars, boxes, containers, and packages of all shapes, sorts, and sizes, and the rest of the cramped space was occupied by cluttered cupboards and a small wooden table in the center of the room.

The tiny laboratory smelled of spicy, exotic herbs and the burnt remains of experiments gone awry. A few of my precious parcels were scribbled with imprecise labels in my own disjointed hand, dating back to the dark days of my life, the terrible days just after Mitra had left me.

The days that gave birth to my opus.

Memories washed over me like a rising flood on an unexpecting shore, drowning me in their bittersweet wake.

* * *

**…**

* * *

Mitra had been beautiful, and the music she had drawn forth from her little violin had brought me to tears. 

I worshiped my royal Indian goddess during those few weeks of bliss that she graciously bestowed upon me with a fervor unmatched by even the most pious of saints. I attended her as more of a slave than a captor, fetching her every whim and listening to her mournful music with rapture in my veins as I planned my next maneuver to seduce her into my bed. I was truly addicted to that one goal, and saw nothing else besides it.

For the first time in my wretched existence, I began to believe that I might find a way to make love to a woman! It was a hope beyond any I had ever known, ever dreamt of in my lonely time spent on this tiring mortal plane.

I abandoned my chores, I neglected my duties as the ship's physician, and I spent every waking moment captivated by my love and my desire for the lush pomegranate of a woman that was enshrined in my cramped quarters. I doted upon my prize as though she was the last woman on earth and I last man, desperate to win her affections.

My dreams, alas, were not to be.

My first love became so violently disgusted when she first discovered my accursed, horrific infirmity that she flung herself from the small window of my cabin, rather than spend another moment in my satanic presence.

Thus the depths of the sea that I both loved and hated welcomed my first love into their bitter embrace. By the time that my rowboat reached the place of her demise, her limp body had lost any vestige of the heavenly soul that had given voice to her little violin.

The strength of her will had been so great that she had drown herself without a weight to carry her down into the cluttered depths Davy Jones' locker.

It was on that very day, as I cradled her sodden, lifeless frame, that I resolved that I should never again love a woman with a stronger spirit than my own. The pain of her loss drove me near to the edges of utter insanity.

How I had mourned her loss!

Night after night, the crew of the Vanora was enthralled by the dirges I composed upon the lost princess's little violin. Night after night, I vowed that I would someday conquer the uncharted lands of love that taunted me over the dawning horizon of each new dreary day.

And out of my fierce determination for victory over the abstract idea of love, was born my greatest masterpiece.

Don Juan Triumphant.

I had once read a detailed review of Mozart's original 'Don Giovanni' in my father's house. Intrigued at the time, I had convinced one of the servants to purchase the music for it and had been mesmerized by the magnificent opera. But breathtaking though it was, the plot had never left me satisfied.

When Mitra abandoned me, I drew inwards for months, madly composing an idyllic world of make believe where Mitra lived and loved me as Don Giovanni, and where every woman on earth was just as easily charmed into my bed and into my heart.

But devastated by Mitra's betrayal, I had believed that I would never see love of such a magnitude while my repulsive body yet drew breath. I had thought that I would only know such sacred emotions in the world of my compositions, a world where I could bend the actors to my every whim and a world where it would never be _my_ heart that was shattered.

Yet wonder of wonders, I was now on the verge of just one such impossibility, for tonight my beloved would willingly come into my embrace!

I saw in hindsight that the love I had felt for the mysterious Indian princess was merely a dull foreshadowing of the love that now overflowed my soul. It was much akin to comparing a delicate sparrow to a pure, brilliant dove. Both were delightful and pleasing to the eye in their perfect avian manners, but the dove was obviously far superior.

* * *

**…**

* * *

Reminded of my sweet dove, my demure and alluring beloved, I was started from my nogistalgic reminiscence. I quickly returned to my pharmaceutical pursuits, mindful of the quickly passing minutes. 

With increasing urgency, I began to crush dried Siberian ginseng and grind several fresh leaves of forskolin with my pestle and mortar.

Many of the containers I selected with practiced grace bore faded, peeling labels that were written in a flowing Farsi script, for most of my drugs had been obtained during my rosy hours, back in the days of Manderzan.

They brought back memories of the happy days in of my little Azadeh, and the warmth and almost fatherly joy she had brought to my lonely life during her abbreviated stay on earth.

* * *

**…**

* * *

It was during my seclusion in Vanora's dim, womb-like depths that the inevitable finally came to pass. 

The great ship was captured at long last.

Apparently, Mitra's threats of her father's retribution had come true, for a massive warship at last did battle with our faithful lady after nearly three months of eluding its clutches. Avenging the loss of one of his favorite children, the Rajah had had De Tham hanged from the main mast of our beloved ship as she perished by flame in one of India's many ports.

As I caught my last glance of the ship that I loved while I was chained and marched into a dark prison cell, I found that I mourned more deeply for the 'grand lady' herself than I did for her captain.

Though De Tham had been, in many respects, the nearest thing I had ever known to a father, I had known from the start that any kindness he showed me was an attempt to procure my services. When he bought me at age eleven from the gypsies, I had been intended as a sort of entertainment for the crew. My voice had grown considerably since I had fled my mother's nightmarish home, and I could now transfix entire audiences with a few notes of my unearthly voice.

To this day, I sometimes wonder just why I was blessed with such a gift.

Yet whatever it's origins, and whatever its calming effects on the rough, uncivilized crew of the Vanora, it was my voice but rather my mind that saved me from a life of being bought and sold from one ship to another like a foreign curiosity.

After one particularly unsuccessful heist, the great pirate captain himself had ordered me brought to his quarters to entertain him. I was presented bound with ropes, for I had mad several nearly successful attempts at escape, even injuring the first mate, before coming to learn that I was surrounded by nothing more than an unending sea of accursed water. While I secretly lamented my difficulty as I sang, De was planning to enjoy my relaxing abilities one final time before bartering me away to pay a debt he had incurred.

Yet when I had finished, the languid man entirely forgot to excuse me from the room, but began instead to bemoan his inability to formulate a successful plan for capturing the ship that he was currently following. He rambled for hours, and proceeded to get a bit drunk before I made a simple suggestion about his tactics that would drastically alter my young life.

So impressed was De Tham when the idea actually worked, that he gave me my 'freedom' and as many manuscripts as I could carry off of the newly conquered vessel. (For I was free to do as I wished so long as no other member of the crew objected, and I did not leave the decks of the Vanora till the day I died.)

Thus I became the ship's galley boy and general entertainer, spinning tales and singing my songs for the weary crew at night after a tiring raid. As I grew and read every document to be found on the ships we pillaged while pestering the aging doctor aboard the 'grand lady', I learned more and more about the art of doctoring wounds, eventually replacing the old greybeard when he died.

And though I always remained grateful to De for his unusual act of kindness on that day so long ago, I was constantly reminded by his cruel actions and words that my life was an uncertain thing with the coming of each new sunrise. Perhaps that was why I felt so little regret upon witnessing his fiery demise.

I was a bit more fortunate, for I was graciously allowed to keep my life as I rotted away for nearly an entire year in the diseased hell that was the Rajah's imperial prison. Stripped of my mask, and forced by my subsequently horrified jailers to wear a filth riddled sack over my head, I often longed and prayed to a God I only half believed in to be merciful and bring sweet death to comfort me.

I was ridiculed and persecuted by my fellow inmates in so many atrocious ways that it would break the reader's precious hearts were I to put quill to page.

My music was my only solace, my only friend in that evil pit of the damned.

It was only by a strange twist of fate that my songs one day reached the eager ears of a little girl named Azadeh…

* * *

**…**

* * *

Startled again out of my fond memories, I concentrated with all my might on the task before me. 

The drug that I was intent upon would, once concealed in her perfume, allow her to loose her inhibitions when she took the stage. In truth, her terrible sense of stage fright was the only obstacle left to our union.

Soon, so very soon! she would come to me willingly (due in part to the sideffects of my 'remedy'). Yes, she would come happily into my embrace, washing away all of the dark stains of my past with her soft, innocent smile and her divine body.

I would only need to wait a few more hours, and I would have my prize, my dove.

Yet a tiny voice in the back of my mind still screamed of the pain I had received at the hands of another, only weeks before. The Iglesias chit was no longer of any importance to me, of course!

Yet the sting of her hatred lingered even now, on the night that I would be one with my angel.

Who was this woman, that she should keep hold of my thoughts? Why should I care about her insignificant emotions, long after she had served her experimental purposes? Why should a seed of guilt still fester in my heart about the injury that I had once caused her?

Perhaps it would be best if I simply killed her, and was done with the irritating affair.

* * *

_**Authoress's Notes**: So, did anyone catch the biblical reference? Did you guys like my version of Eric's history? More to come on that. Idea's about what might happen to that drug?_

_Davy Jones Locker- pirate speak for the ocean floor. I wanted to give Eric a tiny hint of pirate flavor. He did live amongst a pirate crew for about seven or eight years, after all. That, and for some odd reason, I keep thinking of 'Pirates of the Caribbean' every time I imagine Eric as a pirate. Not that that movie is a bad thing; I actually liked it rather well, come to think of it. But Johnny Depp does NOT belong in a Leroux cannon story. Not by a long shot. That, and men don't belong in eyeliner … no matter what! (but that's a story for another day…) Maybe I'll have to sketch out a 'pirate' version of Eric so that I can keep my characters straight…

* * *

_

**Empress Kipper**- (Catches the luck you sent her and stashes it in her pocket. She is gonna need it!) Thanks for reviewing so faithfully, you always inspire me. My reviewers are the real reason I keep writing this story. I hope you like this chapter as much as last one, even though it's a bit stagnant plot wise… and yes, now that you point it out, I do recognize the quote!

**Tigger**- Never fear, there IS oodles more to explore … and yet we are almost 2/3rds of the way done with the story. Doesn't feel long enough, does it? Sorry about the e-mail, I shall try again… Maybe you should try sending yours to me if I don't get through this time. And thank you again, you are an inspiration as always.


	58. All I Loved, P2

I beg your forgiveness for my horrendous absence, faithful readers! School is school, and therefore it is determined to derail me from some of the more important tasks in life …

like writing …

or sleep for that matter...

Yet I shall continue ever onward with my epic novel (laughs at herself), and with the aid of your loyal reviews I shall overcome the evil monster that is my education!

OK, enough of the flowery speeches. I am very sorry, and to prove it I baked CHEESECAKE!

Eat, forgive, and review.

That is all.

* * *

**

* * *

**

_From childhood's hour I have not been  
As others were; I have not seen  
As others saw; I could not bring  
My passions from a common spring.  
From the same source I have not taken  
My sorrow; I could not awaken  
My heart to joy at the same tone;  
And all I loved, I loved alone._

_-'Alone', Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

_

**Chapter Fifty Eight: All I Loved, P.2**

**Leah**

She sang like an angel.

I had never been so proud in all my life, and a warm, almost maternal affection bubbled quietly inside me as my little Tina sang Margarita's final note. But when she fainted shortly thereafter, my sisterly congratulations and praise quickly flitted out of my mind, replaced by concern and irritation that grew with every hurried step I took as I trundled my way up to the room that was her's for the first time.

When I arrived, she was closeted in the much coveted dressing room with the doctor of the house, and not a word had been issued since the door had last closed behind a still unconscious singer.

Prayers for Tina's wellbeing were muttered as easily as curses the nearer I drew to her side, for I was not the only one who sought out news of Christine Daae tonight.

Dozens of new devotees had been born the moment my once unassuming little friend had taken her place on the stage. Men and women both -though the former were more prevalent by far- had come to inquire about their newest diva.

The ravenous hordes of well wishers and admirers were only held at bay Tina's short, stout little maid, Ingrid. The practical, no-nonsense woman fended off the overzealous bourgeois with nothing more than a cold blue, Swedish stare and the sheer force of her impregnable will. Yet even this could not deter the clamor of the patrons and their guests.

Voices called out to have their questions answered, and were quite confused when the information they desired was denied to them. The milling throng seemed to feel that once she had sung upon the stage, her life was no longer hers alone, but that they were entitled to a share of it as well.

Had I not been so very focused on attending Tina, I would have taken the chance to silently mock the foolishness of the upper class that I had belonged to so many long years ago. Did these idiots really have so little to do that they insisted on meddling in the lives of others? And why in the name of all sacred things had I ever wanted to emulate such people?

Yet these thoughts could have been another's for all that they truly affected me.

I cared little at the moment for the public sentiment, wishing only to find a way to her side. I surveyed the crowd outside her door with utter dismay. They were crammed into the tiny hall like peaches and syrup in a tin can.

How was I to reach my friend?

But just as I steeled myself to shove my way through the useless flock of jackdaws, a young man brushed past me and cleared a path in the wilderness of satin skirts and tailcoats. I only had half a breath to recognize Philippe's little brother (Had it been Robert … Raymond, perhaps? …I had never had much of a head for names), before my window of opportunity was nearly gone.

Rushing after him in a most unladylike fashion, I hitched my well worn, serviceable black skirts up -nearly to my ankles!- and slipped into the dressing room just as Ingrid slammed the door behind me.

The indignant outsiders raised their voices ever higher, apparently demanding the same rights to see 'La Daae' as the two who had just been admitted. Their empty-headed nonsense was only put to an end when a distinctly accented command was issued in broken, unmanageable French and rapid Yiddish.

From the little of the language that Tina and Beth had managed to teach me, I was certainly glad that I was on the other side of the heavily paneled mahogany wall.

Even I blushed at a few of her curses and threats, though I was certainly no stranger to the course language of the stables and the cellars. I would wager a week's wages that not even Pierre, Joseph's most foul mouthed stable hand, knew some of those phrases.

Despite all of Madame Valerius's most valiant efforts for the cause, Ingrid never really_ had_ learned to recognize authority as a servant should have.

Tina once speculated that it was because her father had not paid attention to such things while he lived that the portly maid had never bothered to realize that she was not simply a member of the Daae family.

By the time Ingrid's language had startled the crème de la crème into some semblance of hushed politeness, my attention was fixed elsewhere.

Tina's plump cheeks had lost their customary rosy hue, and she fidgeted in her unconscious state, but that was not what had drawn my eye. The young man from before was now looming over her in a disturbingly familiar manner, his debonair top hat clutched to his chest as he continued to stare at her.

I had had quite enough of this! First the gut wrenching business with the 'ghost', and now a rouge admirer who had avoided Ingrid's formidable arsenal with a streak of luck? Perhaps God sought to teach me patience with these masculine problems, but I was not in the mood to be instructed.

And who did this little pipsqueak of a boy think he was?

Did he really think that I would defend Tina from a crazed hermit, yet fail to foil his little plans?

I had vowed long ago that I would never allow Tina to suffer the pain of being used by a man as I had, and I was not about to break that oath just yet!

Already quite peevish from the recent nerve grinding events of the evening and incited by memories of the past that still littered my heart like fresh wounds, I failed to recall who the boy was and began to upbraid him for his unseemly conduct.

"Monsieur," I snapped with ice on my breath as I drew near the divan where she lay. "Just what do you think that you are doing here?

The boy seemed startled by the mere sound of my voice, much less the tone I had taken. And well that he should!

Had he had any sense in that pretty little chestnut head of his, he would have bolted immediately. It was the voice I used to keep the youngest dancers in line when I was burdened with teaching them, due to their former instructor's recent marriage.

It was a voice that could stop a charging bull in its tracks at twenty paces, a tone that should have frozen the skin he stood in.

But all that it received on that fatal night was a wide eyed stare and a slightly gaping mouth.

I would have beaten him out of the door with a verbal lashing on my tongue, had it not been for Tina's pained groan and the hiss to be silent that issued out from under the doctor's bushy white beard.

The old man applied a warm cloth to Tina's head as she grumbled several times in her mockery of sleep, and both the boy and I forgot our would be spat as we held our breaths.

For what seemed an eternity, the gnarled physician patiently waved smelling salts under her nose. Then with another unhappy grunt, Tina's eyes fluttered open and began to focus on the first thing in sight.

The boy.

When she finally regained seemed to see him, she gave the strangest little jump, and quickly glanced about for others in the room. Seeing the doctor and myself, she seemed to calm a bit and smiled warmly at us both.

I would not grudge her that jump. How else would any decent girl react upon waking to see a strange man in her dressing room?

Yet the seemingly natural question that next whispered from her lips would someday shake the Garnier to its very foundations.

"Monsieur…"

Something distant in her voice was pained and full of sorrow.

Why was she looking at him that way, as though he was the last raft floating away from a sinking ship? If I hadn't known better, I would have thought her on the verge of tears!

"Monsieur, who are you?" She managed to stutter out at last.

Now it was his turn to be startled, but he hid it well as he bent to kiss her gloved hand. It was quite polite, but something about him said that there was more in his head than thoughts of her glove. I did not trust him.

"I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf." He said simply, emphasizing each word as though he spoke to an infant.

Though the child kept a serious face about him, it was such an absurd answer that I nearly began to laugh on the spot.

Apparently Tina felt the same, for she laughed aloud, and the doctor and I both had a chuckle as well. Perhaps the boy had been so dazzled by her performance that he lost his wits somewhere in the theater proper. I was about to advise him to return and collect them as he turned more and more red.

He stiffly asked to speak with her privately, (_Privately_! What Gall!) but she soon dismissed both men from the room with an uncharacteristic edge to her sweet disposition.

It was surprising to hear her speak so rudely, but it was a greater surprise to see her slump down upon the divan once they had gone.

"Oh Leah," she whimpered like a lost puppy, "What am I to do?"

I gingerly took a seat next to her and cradled her sobbing form as she began to cry in earnest.

"What is the matter, hermanita? Who was that boy?"

My questions were merely punctuated by wails that were becoming ominously louder. I would have to quiet her soon, or the entire house would hear this racket!

"Hush now, else the entire audience shall hear your blubbering." I tried to calm her as practically as I could, but I knew that the logic sounded cold. It had been so long since I had comforted anyone that I was unsure if I still remembered how.

It took nearly a quarter of the hour for my little sister to take hold of herself once again, and even then I was not sure of how strong her hold truly was. It seemed that the slightest puff of breeze might reanimate her tears and hysterics.

I was beginning to worry about her stability. True, Tina had always been an emotional little girl, but when she returned to the Garnier after her long absence, she had come back to me a proper young lady of society. She was quiet, reserved, even demure and domestic. But the quivering bundle of nerves that sniffled in my arms was neither girl nor lady, and the violence of her emotions startled me.

Could this really be my little Tina?

"There, that's better, no?" I wiped away a final tear from her puffy eyes. "Now tell me, what is the matter?"

She paused, hesitant, but finally gave in to my insistence.

"That was Raoul." She said simply.

The puzzle pieces began to align, and I realized that the young Viscomte and her precious childhood friend were one and the same.

"_That_ was _Raoul_?"

* * *

**…**

* * *

Needless to say, we spent quite some time discussing our relations to the men of Casa de Cheney. I forewarned her of my painful past, and she told the entire romantic tale of her summer love. It was only with the most strenuous of persuasion, however, that she divulged the dark secret of her 'angel' and the hellish ways that he had already meddled in her life. 

When I learned of her 'Maestro's' prohibition against love, I was sorely tempted to reveal him for the fraud that he was. Yet deep as my hatred boiled for the man, I would not, -no- I could not shatter Tina's faith. Her faith was her one surety, and to see his cheat in the light would likely break her in two.

It had nothing to do with the pity that I still felt for the man on occasion, and it certainly had nothing to do with the emotions he had once stirred in my heart. Surely it didn't!

No, my only aim was to protect Tina from the pain I had already known. I would be damned if he would injure her as he had me!

"I will catch him and skin him alive if I have to." I silently decided as I left Tina's apartments, not intending to move from the door until she had left this accursed building.

And to think, I had once thought that these cold stone walls held a utopia! What a cruel trick to be trapped in a cage instead, and trapped with a deformed madman no less!

It was only when I heard their conversation that the fortifications around my soul began to tumble down.

His voice appeared suddenly and in all its near hypnotic glory as he professed undying love for 'his angel' over and over again, commanding her with heavenly authority (and a sorrow that I doubted Tina could hear while enraptured elsewize) that she must reciprocate.

"…_You must love me!" _

He cried, and in that moment I knew that he meant her no harm. No voice, not even one such as the opera ghost possessed, could falsify the all consuming, tender need that I knew to be love.

I ought to have sighed a little sigh of relief, knowing that I should not have to dismember my hermana's faith.

I ought to have been relieved … and yet something indiscernible lurked beneath the still waters of my heart.

If I had not known better, I would have called it envy.

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_**Disclaimer:** In no way did I intend to imply that Johnny Depp is not a sexy boy. He is very sexy, and is one of the few men on earth who DOES look hot in eyeliner… "But where's the rum?"  
_

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**Tigger-** In no way do I intend for Eric to become sane all of a sudden, but that's not to say that love can't be an eventual cure for SOME of his nutty ness. He is Eric after all. But perhaps having such an unhealthy devotion eats up all his time for talking to himself … or maybe he doesn't think of himself in that weird third extra person thing when he is remembering earlier, less nutty, parts of his life… food for thought. I don't know what to do about my email, but it is misbehaving as of late. I got nothing.

**Empress-** Don't shoot, I'll keep writing! Leah may not smack him (or maybe she will! GO LEAH!) but there is definitely going to be more plot movement now! Dun dun da!

**JPT-** Once again, your reviews were one of the bright spots in my day when I received them. I'm so happy that you liked the material, and I have to admit that that chapter was one of my favorites too. Thanks so much. And yes, much foreshadowing. As for the drug, I purposely did not mention it here, and it will not resurface for a while, but when it does… well, you'll see.


	59. The Blinding Flames of Truth

**All right readers, its time for another one of my harebrained plot changes. I was looking over the material I've got written so far, and I need to make a change to a previous bit of the plot before we continue with the story.**

**In chapter forty three, Eric informs us that the relationship between himself and Leah had involved kissing. This must be changed. There are a few important reasons for this later in the plot, and obviously the most important is that a previous experience with kissing would dull the splendorous importance of Christine's kiss at the end of the book. **

**I have gone back and edited that chapter, and for now I shall simply say that in the best interests of the plot, the kissing has to go. Here's what happens instead:**

**During their 'relationship', Leah allowed Eric to touch her, and this was what impacted him so profoundly, as she was the first sane woman to ever do so. Leah in turn was impressed and touched by his petrified inexperience and leeriness of touch, thinking that he was being chivalrous and 'moving' very slowly so as to be a gentleman with her. Even now, this is still an endearing memory for her.**

**In short, all hail my most beloved of betas, Fish. She forecasted this immanent need to nix the kissing long before I would admit to its necessity.**

**All hail Fish!

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Quiet confusion  
Strangled illusions  
Holding back the tears from falling

Drowning inside me  
Cover what I see  
Let Your light wash through my soul

Burn out what I see  
Blind my eyes  
Tear this painted black sea  
I'm losing myself in my search for You  
I'm reaching through the flames of truth

-Flames of Truth, Sarah Masen

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**Chapter Fifty Nine: The Blinding Flames of Truth

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**Leah**

Walking away from the sound of his voice, my head began to swim.

Recognizing the all too familiar signs, I ducked into a dim, narrow hallway before the migraine could impair my vision. Over the years, these stress induced head aches had proved to be a frustrating side effect of my old injury. Even the physician did not know if I could ever hope to be rid of them.

As the painful pounding began to pick out a tempo in my head, I could not stop the thoughts from flowing in.

It had come as a shock to learn of the ghost's intentions regarding Tina. After hearing the depth of the conviction in that miraculous voice, I could no longer doubt his motives.

That voice had held all of the burning need and longing that I come to associate with love in fairy tales and penny novels. Yes, the ghost loved my hermana and would not harm her. Despite every logical notion that I had ever possessed, I knew that it was true.

As my shock began to fade into understanding, a tiny weight was lifted from my shoulders. I would have done anything –_anything!_- to protect Tina, even knowing that it would be almost impossible to bring her away from him unscathed, and it was a relief to know that I would not have to.

Yet even as the load was lifted from my back, troublesome questions began to fill my stomach with a heaviness that nearly outweighed the first.

My fretting did little to sooth my strain, and the awful throbbing sensation pulsated like lighting bolts through my temples. It felt as though there were a thousand tiny men with pick axes attempting to burrow their way out of my brain with little scissor like taps.

Why did my heart feel as though it had suddenly dropped to my toes?

I knew without bothering to answer myself that the sensation had little to do with my physical condition as I continued to recall the anxious plea of the man I had once felt so much for.

"…_You must love me!" _

Why on earth should my lungs contract in such an uncomfortable manner when I remembered his desperate cry?

What possible reason could there be for the twinges of jealousy that I felt whenever I thought of my little Tina?

And once again, I knew without a second thought that I could not kill the seed of emotions that the man had once planted in my soul with his gentle manner and timid kindness. Memories of endearing moments traitorously filled my head as the pain grew steadily worse.

I thought of the first time he had held my hand, the first time he had been able to look at me in the eye without flinching away. He had always been so reluctant, so unsure. It was as though he was a terrified mouse seeing a vicious cat whenever he was within a few feet of me.

A hungry cat.

Yet even if frightened, Señor had been sweet and infinitely gentle, a far better man than Philippe in every way.

Knowing the tiny scrap that I did now, I finally understood why he had been so uneasy around me, around people in general. At the time, I had thought it a bit odd, but assumed that he was being genuinely chivalrous and slow in his advances so as not to impugn my honor.

Now I saw them for the truth: he had been injured by people all of his unfortunate life, mistreated and abandoned and scorned.

Though I felt a little rush of anger for his tormentors, I still could not think of what I had once seen behind that mask without shuddering.

How could I still feel such emotions, retain such traces of tenderness for a man who was a monster?

Wasn't this the same man whose face left me sleepless with gnawing horror?

Wasn't his ghoulish appearance one of the reasons I had been infected with the need for the bottle?

The silent mention of my addiction only worsened my need for it, and heightened my growing discomfort at the same time.

Pain ricocheted inside my head, crashing like waves on the shore. The little gnomes had abandoned their pick axes in favor of sledge hammers, and were now proceeding to bludgeon their way out of my skull.

The sight of the dim wall in front of me began to grow unclear, and darkness crept into the corners of my vision.

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**Eric**

Horror consumed me.

Two acts had all but murdered my soul in one night. (Such a soul as a monster was capable of possessing at least.)

The first, and most painful, I could avoid thinking of if I set my mind to the task, but the second…

The second glared up at me from the pocket of my waistcoat like a coiled serpent waiting to strike, its transgression not but five minutes old. Even my hands accused me as they silently screamed of my guilty and monstrosity.

"_Monster."_

"_Inhuman."_

"_Murderer."_

"_**Murderer!"**_

I could not deny the truth, though I regretted it deeply. Joseph Bouquet had been a useful cog in the great machine of my opera house, a quiet, determined man who brooked no nonsense and did his job well.

At least he _had_ done his job well.

Until I killed him.

What kind of a monster was I, to take another life even after my promises to the dargoa? I had sworn to put that old life behind me, yet the first instant that an intruder discovered my house, I had killed him without a second thought.

"Is Eric still the magician from Azadeh's court? Is he still the black angel?" I inwardly cringed. How I hated the man that I had been in the days of Manderzan, and yet he was the inmost part of my being!

"Are we a monster or a man? Oh my angel, forgive Eric!"

How could I go on loving her as a man when I was still no more than an animal within?

How could I long to walk in the sun with the rest of humanity when any human would condemn me on sight for my unpardonable sins?

It was the first and most painful thought, and try as I might it would not leave me. How could I deserve such a goddess when I remained a demon?

"Eric is a monster!" I wailed in despair.

"No! I am just a man. Just a man, damn you!" I sobbed, collapsing where I stood as tears blurred my vision.

"Just a man." I whispered and curled into a sobbing ball on the elaborate Persian carpet.

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**Leah**

Several moments passed before my vision ceased to shimmer and dance.

As I walked away from the little hallway where I had hidden during my headache (Mme Jules often called them 'fits'), I inwardly cursed the man who had caused them.

He had engineered my fall and taken away my life, and for that I would never forgive him.

I repeated the accusation over and over in my head, trying with all my heart to convince myself to believe that I could carry through with my sentence of unforgiveness. If only I could have ignored the tiny pinpricks of other irritating emotions that surfaced when I thought of him!

Why couldn't I manage to separate the man who called himself opera ghost from my memories of a man known only as Señor? The two people could not be any more different, and indeed, could not be one person. It was inconceivable, yet it was the truth.

Occupied with my thoughts, I was caught unaware as I rounded the corner.

I could barely silence a scream.

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_**JPT**- puzzle away dear, and good luck! Even I am not one hundred percent sure about the outcome for this story. I actually have a few different endings in mind, and it is yet to be seen if anyone ends up happy. Don't hurt me because I'm secretive. I know just what you are talking about with the last page thing though. Maybe I'll tell you what the last sentence is or something …_

_**Tigger**- Pie? Pie? PIE! (hugs you excitedly) Bring on the freshman 15! Leah just might end up doing some 'excellent to behold' confronting, especially after she sees what's around the corner…_

_**Songstress**- NEW REVIEWER! WELCOME! (hope I don't scare you off with all this shouting.) Yes, chapter and cheesecake –double chocolate in fact- are yours for the taking. Thank you so much for commenting, and I hope you keep it up, cause it always brightens my day to hear from you guys. As for the line breaks, look on the toolbar on the editing page. I hope this helps._


	60. Empty

_Come up with me to the lonely places  
Come run with me out in the empty spaces  
We'll find the pieces of life  
That the rest of the world just ignores_

_Will you come down with me to the deep dark places  
Stick with me through my empty phases  
Life with me will be crazy  
But I promise that you'll never be bored…_

_-'Take a Ride', mine_

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Chapter Sixty: Empty

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**Leah**

They were empty and cold as the grave.

Joseph's eyes stared up at me lifelessly from the dusty floor of the corridor, a rough gouge around his throat from where he had obviously been strangled.

I fell to my knees in disbelief, and numbly tried to wake him from his unblinking sleep. Loss echoed painfully in the gapping wound of my heart like a tolling bell as I cradled my friend's limp head to my chest and tried to believe that he was still breathing.

"No, Joseph." I croaked unsteadily. "Don't go. Please don't be dead."

How I wished that tears would come!

"Cry, damn you! He is dead, and you can't even shed a tear for him? Joseph, come back!"

That was how they found me.

It was as though I had been sprung upon by a pack of wolves, for their horrified squeals and chittering cut into me more deeply than the sharpest of teeth ever could have. I could not have imagined a worse group to come upon me in my frazzled state of grief.

Nearly a dozen nattering little girls from my classes, headed by none other than Margosha and little James, the most hopeless of all my unwanted students, came around the corner followed by Philippe and Sorelli themselves. Even after all these years, the only ounce of forgiveness I had for either of those backstabbing fish-gutters was the tiny amount of gratitude that I owed to Donatella for procuring my booze. Though I had no idea where the woman obtained such things, I sometimes speculated that she did so in order to somehow gain my forgiveness, as though she felt slightly guilty for what she had done.

And well that she should!

Yet forgiveness and betrayal were the last things on my mind. The pain and shock that radiated through my body had overwhelmed any other sensation or thought. I blindly sought whatever solace was closest at hand, falling into the arms of a woman that I despised and gibbering uncontrollably.

Even Philippe, bastard that he was, could not bring himself to sneer down his nose at me in superiority as he was so often wont to do.

Instead, he quickly took command of the situation and began ordering the hysterical ballerinas to locate various opera officials and bring them to the scene of the crime. By the time that the inspector had arrived and Sorelli had pried me away from Joseph's cold, dead body, even le Comte de Cheney had found it in himself to wrap a comforting arm around me as I shook silently.

Once it was clear that poor Joseph had been dead hours before I had found him and that I could not possibly have been involved in his demise, the inspector released me into Sorelli's care. She and the little twits from the academy sheparded me back to my quarters, whispering all the while in horrified tones that the 'opera ghost' had struck again.

By the time that I was left alone in my dark little room, rage boiled through my veins.

After vomiting all of my dinner into the washbasin, I sought out my faithful bottle of gin and went at it with a will, trying with all my might to imbibe enough of the throat blistering stuff so that I would pass out before I could do something that I would regret.

How I longed to avenge my friend!

As I stripped down to my shift and attempted to find a drunken state of peace, similar scenes of violence ricocheted inside the emptiness of my heart and only served to inflame my fiery temper. Others had been executed in much the same manner in the past, and each death had always had a connection to the opera ghost.

Had I known what I was doing, I would never have left my frigid bed to wander out into the halls in naught but a thin shift.

Had I been in my right mind, I would have been terrified by the idea that I shared my home with the despicable creature that had murdered poor Joseph.

Had I been thinking clearly, I would never have dreamed of doing what I did next.

Gin, however, is rarely conducive to logical thought, and an empty bottle lay next to my thin cot.

With a belly full of booze and Henry's faithful dagger in my fist, I scurried off –none too steadily- to the fifth cellar, in search of a once hidden door.

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_Ok, this was really short, so I'll try to have the next ch. up sooner to compensate.

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**Fish-** My poor, poor bedraggled fishy-poo! (takes fish out of her non-existent tank and begins to pet her and feed her exorbent amounts of cheesecake in an effort to assuage her pain) I remember some of my high school choir classes, and therefore you have all of the pity I possess. Just remember though, not ALL high school choirs are that bad. The year that I was in honors choir was one of my favorite classes ever, and the people in it were phenomenal to work with and to get to know. Keep your spirits up!

**JPT-** I am so happy that the dual personality thing is coming out like I hoped it would, as I am joyful about everybody's response to Leah's slow emotional changes. You guys make me smile.

**Tigger-** Yay! Everybody likes my alterations! Yay! Thanks for reviewing. Whenever someone reviews, an authoress smiles.

**Empress Kipper-** Ick indeedy. School is greatly impeding my ability to write. That, and now I have a gym class at eight in the morning.

And I am not a morning person.

Needless to say, I commiserate with you about the school dilemma. I still can't seem to contact you with my facebook stats, but if you have AIM, my screenname is BackrubGoddess13. As for story based topics, since you seem to like 'pissed off Leah' I think you will enjoy next chapter… antz in your pantz anyone?

**NativeDreamer**- New reviewer! (Throws official new reviewer party) I'm glad to hear from you again. I do really need to update on aria, don't I? Ah, so much to do, so little time. But I'm glad to see you again either way, and thanks for the review. Keep it up, and I'll give you cheesecake!


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